envelope unbelievingly. The letter came from St. Timothy’s School and
was addressed to him. He finished distributing the other letters among
the boxes, for people were waiting outside the partition; then he opened
the envelope and read the type-written enclosure. A flush crept up over
his cheeks, over his forehead; when he raised his eyes, the brooding
look was no longer in them, but a quiet happiness instead, and his lips,
which had so long been troubled, were smoothed out in a faint, contented
smile. He read the letter a second time, then put it in his pocket, and
stepped round behind the counter to sell five cents’ worth of pink
gumdrops to little Abby Lawson.

When she had gone and the callers after mail had been satisfied, Irving
sat down at the table in the back of the store. He read the letter again
and mused over it for a few moments contentedly; then, with it lying
open before him, he proceeded to write an answer.

After finishing that, he drew from his pocket some papers—French
exercises, done in a scrawling, unformed hand.

It was the noon hour, when the people of the village were all eating
their dinners; Mr. Beasley had gone home, and Irving was undisturbed.
He helped himself to the crackers and dried beef which were his luncheon
perquisites, and with these at his elbow and nibbling them from time to
time he set about correcting his brother’s French.

He sighed in spite of the happiness which was pervading him; would
Lawrence always go on confusing some of the forms of _être_ and _avoir_?
Would he never learn to know the difference between _ils ont_ and _ils
sont_?