"Surely, my dear child, you cannot suppose that I would be displeased because our friend Suzanne, to whom we owe so much, has entertained her nephew here, especially as he must be a well-behaved boy, or Suzanne would not have kept him with her."
"You must see him, father, and then you can judge for yourself."
"But how did he happen to lose his place?"
"He was a copyist, but his sight is so bad that it interfered with his work, and they dismissed him. You can imagine, my dear father, how painful his present position is to him, for he has a good education, and cannot bear to be idle. His defective vision will make it very difficult for him to secure any position, I fear; so, father, I have been counting, that is to say, Suzanne and I have been counting on you to assist and advise M. Onésime. I am sure when you see him and know him, you will do anything in the world for him, he is so kind and good, and you will pity him and love him so much."
It is impossible to describe the naïve and touching manner in which Sabine uttered these last words, her changing colour and gently heaving breast betraying the lively interest she felt in her protégé.
Cloarek stood silent and thoughtful for a moment. He was beginning to understand the change he had noticed in his daughter's manner and expression. At last the young girl, surprised and somewhat alarmed by Yvon's silence, asked:
"Why do you not answer me, my dear father?"
"Tell me, my child, since Suzanne's nephew has been living here, what has he done? What kind of a life has he led?"
"The same life we have led, father. When we go out to walk, he goes with us; if we remain at home, he remains. We make him read to us a good deal,—he reads so well and with so much expression. Sometimes we play duets together, for he is an excellent musician. He is very well up, too, in history, and it is very pleasant and instructive to hear him talk on such subjects, and lastly, he is always trying to do us some little service, though he doesn't always succeed, for his poor sight makes him very awkward. But that is his only fault, my dear father," added Sabine, with charming ingenuousness, "and though he surely cannot be held accountable for it, Suzanne is pitiless toward it, for she is always making fun of him."
"You do not make fun of him, I am sure."