"When the count decides that a thing will be done it is usually done,"
said my schoolmaster. "And Madame de Ferrier was very active in
forwarding the preparations."

The joy of youth in the unknown was before me. My old camp life receded
behind me.

Madame de Ferrier's missal-book lay on the table, and when I stopped
before it tongue-tied, Doctor Chantry said I was to keep it.

"She gives it to you. It was treasured in her family on account of
personal attachment to the giver. She is not a Catholic. She was brought
up as good a Protestant as any English gentlewoman."

"I told her it was my mother's. It seemed to be my mother's. But I don't
know--I can't remember."

My master looked at the missal, and said it was a fine specimen of
illumination. His manner toward me was so changed that I found it hard
to refer to the lancet. This, however, very naturally followed his
examination of my head. He said I had healthy blood, and the wound was
closing by the first intention. The pink cone at the tip of his nose
worked in a whimsical grin as he heard my apology.

"It is not often you will make the medicine man take his own remedy, my
lad."

We thus began our relation with the best feeling. It has since appeared
that I was a blessing to Doctor Chantry. My education gave him something