his poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, and
his widow--left without any means, and with an old mother and a child--
had written to beg for a home. M. Antoine asked me first to translate
the letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised that he should
have this answer to-day: before everything, let us fulfil our promises.

The sheet of "Bath" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into the
ink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when I
perceive that I have not my dictionary. Now, a Parisian who would speak
English without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings; the
ground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step. I run then
to the bookbinder's, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in the
square.

The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knocking,
and I see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger. This
latter has a violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexed
and out of humor. I learn from him that his comrade was not able to get
up in the morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour.

I ask whether they have sent for a doctor.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Pierre, roughly; "one must have money in
one's pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead of
savings."

"But you," said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?"

"Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horse
is friend to the leader--on condition that each will take his share of