honours was quite overcome by our knowledge of and interest in her
pedagogical hero, but she did not return the compliment. I asked
her if the townspeople knew about Friedrich Froebel, but she looked
blank.

"Froebel? Froebel?" she asked; "qui est-ce?"

"Mais, Madame," I said eloquently, "c'etait un grand homme! Un
heros! Le plus grand eleve de Pestalozzi! Aussi grand que
Pestalozzi soi-meme!"

("PLUS grand! Why don't you say plus grand?" murmured Salemina
loyally.)

"Je ne sais!" she returned, with an indifferent shrug of the
shoulders. "Je ne sais! Il y a des autres, je crois; mais moi, je
connais Pestalozzi, c'est assez!"

All the younger children had gone home, but she took us through the
empty schoolrooms, which were anything but attractive. We found an
unhappy small boy locked in one of them. I slipped behind the
concierge to chat with him, for he was so exactly like all other
small boys in disgrace that he made me homesick.

"Tu etais mechant, n'est ce-pas?" I whispered consolingly; "mais tu
seras sage demain, j'en suis sure!"

I thought this very pretty, but he wriggled from under my
benevolent hand, saying "Va!" (which I took to be, "Go 'long,
you!") "je n'etais mechant aujourd'hui et je ne serai pas sage