fetch her away, but she won't have me near her in the interval; she says
I make her nervous. As if it didn't make me nervous to wander about
all day without her! Ah, if anything were to happen to her!" cried
M. Nioche, clenching his two fists and jerking back his head again,
portentously.

"Oh, I guess nothing will happen," said Newman.

"I believe I should shoot her!" said the old man, solemnly.

"Oh, we'll marry her," said Newman, "since that's how you manage it; and
I will go and see her tomorrow at the Louvre and pick out the pictures
she is to copy for me."

M. Nioche had brought Newman a message from his daughter, in acceptance
of his magnificent commission, the young lady declaring herself his most
devoted servant, promising her most zealous endeavor, and regretting
that the proprieties forbade her coming to thank him in person. The
morning after the conversation just narrated, Newman reverted to his
intention of meeting Mademoiselle Noemie at the Louvre. M. Nioche
appeared preoccupied, and left his budget of anecdotes unopened; he
took a great deal of snuff, and sent certain oblique, appealing glances
toward his stalwart pupil. At last, when he was taking his leave,
he stood a moment, after he had polished his hat with his calico
pocket-handkerchief, with his small, pale eyes fixed strangely upon
Newman.

"What's the matter?" our hero demanded.

"Excuse the solicitude of a father's heart!" said M. Nioche. "You