A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness of school, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of custom. One afternoon, in crossing the carré , on my way to the first class, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of “style and literature,” I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows, Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante . She always “stood at ease;” one of her hands rested in her apron-pocket, the other, at this moment, held to her eyes a letter, whereof Mademoiselle coolly perused the address, and deliberately studied the seal.