"Well, you see, I've got four or five of my old comrades who also want to learn to read."
"What's that you say?" Teresa said, leaving her knitting to stand in front of the Breton.
"It's true enough, Mademoiselle Teresa, and when you come to think of it, it's not a bit strange. Down at the factory they all know how different and how happy I am. And how they did make fun of me when I started to learn to read; just as they jeered at me when Jesus Christ first saved me and I learned to pray. But now some of them, seeing how happy I am, also want to learn to read, and who knows but some day they will want to know how to pray to the Lord Jesus also."
Paula's face took on a serious expression—finally, however, she slowly shook her head.
"You know, with all my heart, I'd just love to see it done; but it's perfectly useless, I suppose, even to think of it," she said sadly.
"That's what I thought too," said the Breton; "I'm sorry I spoke about it"
"Well, I don't know," continued Paula. "Perhaps if uncle could arrange somehow—I remember when I was quite small, back there before I left the valley, my dear god-mother had a night-school for laboring men. It was just lovely. They learned to read and to write and to calculate. Then afterwards, each night before they went home they would sing hymns and read the Bible and pray."
"Yes, that's all very well," said Teresa, "but your godmother was a whole lot older than you are."
Then turning to the Breton she said, "Why don't you tell your friends to go to the night-school in town?"
"Well," said the Breton, "I know that they learn 'many things there, but they don't teach them about God. However, as I said before, I'm sorry I mentioned the thing. Let's not speak any more about it"