"Well, I never," cried Jacintha. "But, after all, why not?"

He hurled himself on the kitchen table (clean as china), and told her it
was all over. "She hates me now; but it is not my fault," and so poured
forth his tale, and feeling sure of sympathy, asked Jacintha whether it
was not bitterly unjust of Rose to refuse him her own acquaintance, yet
ask him to amuse that old fogy.

Jacintha stood with her great arms akimbo, taking it all in, and looking
at him with a droll expression of satirical wonder.

"Now you listen to a parable," said she. "Once there was a little boy
madly in love with raspberry jam."

"A thing I hate."

"Don't tell me! Who hates raspberry jam? He came to the store closet,
where he knew there were jars of it, and--oh! misery--the door was
locked. He kicked the door, and wept bitterly. His mamma came and said,
'Here is the key,' and gave him the key. And what did he do? Why,
he fell to crying and roaring, and kicking the door. 'I don't
wa-wa-wa-wa-nt the key-ey-ey. I wa-a-ant the jam--oh! oh! oh! oh!'"
and Jacintha mimicked, after her fashion, the mingled grief and ire of
infancy debarred its jam. Edouard wore a puzzled air, but it was only
for a moment; the next he hid his face in his hands, and cried, "Fool!"

"I shall not contradict you," said his Mentor.

"She was my best friend. Once acquainted with the doctor, I could visit
at Beaurepaire."