"And why not, if my uncle should let me?"
"Well, Mademoiselle, that would be different. I believe that with you to teach me I might be able to learn," and the Breton leaned on his spade for a moment.
"You are so good and kind and patient, I would not be afraid of your making fun of my stupid efforts. But there, there's no use thinking about such a thing, for I'm sure the master would never permit it."
* * * * *
In fact, it did take a good deal to persuade my father, but Paula won his permission at last.
The Breton came every Saturday night Teresa complained a bit at first, seeing her kitchen turned into a night-school for such a rough ignorant workman, but "for Jesus Christ's sake," as Paula said, she had finally become resigned to it.
It was both pathetic and comical to see the efforts which the poor Breton made as he tried to follow with one great finger the letters which his young teacher pointed out to him. He stumbled on, making many mistakes but never discouraged. Sometimes the sweat poured from him when the task appeared too great for him. At such times he would put his head in his hands for a moment, and then with a great sigh he would start again.
At the end of a month he had learned the alphabet and nothing more, and even then he would make mistakes in naming some of the letters.
"Oh, let him go!" said Teresa; "He's like myself. He'll never, never learn."
But Paula's great eyes opened wide.