Four weeks went by so rapidly that every one refused to believe it when the major stated the fact at the breakfast-table, for all had enjoyed themselves so heartily that they had been unconscious of the lapse of time.  
"You are not going away, uncle?" cried Amy, with a panic-stricken look.
 
"Next week, my dear; we must be off, for we've much to do yet, and I promised mamma to bring you back by the end of October."
 
"Never mind Paris and the rest of it; this is pleasanter. I'd rather stay here—"
 
There Amy checked herself and tried to hide her face behind her coffee-cup, for Casimer looked up in a way that made her heart flutter and her cheeks burn.
 
"Sorry for it, Amy; but go we must, so enjoy your last week with all your might, and come again next year."
 
"It will never be again what it is now," sighed Amy; and Casimer echoed the words "next year," as if sadly wondering if the present year would not be his last.
 
Helen rose silently and went into the garden, for of late she had fallen into the way of reading and working in the little pavilion which stood in an angle of the wall, overlooking lake and mountains.
 
A seat at the opposite end of the walk was Amy's haunt, for she liked the sun, and within a week or two something like constraint had existed between the cousins. Each seemed happier apart, and each was intent on her own affairs. Helen watched over Amy's health, but no longer offered advice or asked confidence. She often looked anxious, and once or twice urged the major to go, as if conscious of some danger.
 
But the worthy man seemed to have been bewitched as well as the young folks, and was quite happy sitting by the plump, placid widow, or leisurely walking with her to the chapel on the hillside.
 
All seemed waiting for something to break up the party, and no one had the courage to do it. The major's decision took every one by surprise, and Amy and Casimer looked as if they had fallen from the clouds.
 
The persistency with which the English lessons had gone on was amazing, for Amy usually tired of everything in a day or two. Now, however, she was a devoted teacher, and her pupil did her great credit by the rapidity with which he caught the language. It looked like pleasant play, sitting among the roses day after day, Amy affecting to embroider while she taught, Casimer marching to and fro on the wide, low wall, below which lay the lake, while he learned his lesson; then standing before her to recite, or lounging on the turf in frequent fits of idleness, both talking and laughing a great deal, and generally forgetting everything but the pleasure of being together. They wrote little notes as exercises—Amy in French, Casimer in English, and each corrected the other's.
 
All very well for a time; but as the notes increased the corrections decreased, and at last nothing was said of ungrammatical French or comical English and the little notes were exchanged in silence.
 
As Amy took her place that day she looked forlorn, and when her pupil came her only welcome was a reproachful—
 
"You are very late, sir."
 
"It is fifteen of minutes yet to ten clocks," was Casimer's reply, in his best English.
 
"Ten o'clock, and leave out 'of' before minutes. How many times must I tell you that?" said Amy, severely, to cover her first mistake.
 
"Ah, not many times; soon all goes to finish, and I have none person to make this charming English go in my so stupide head."
 
"What will you do then?"
 
"I jeter myself into the lake."
 
"Don't be foolish; I'm dull to-day, and want to be cheered up; suicide isn't a pleasant subject."
 
"Good! See here, then—a little plaisanterie—what you call joke. Can you will to see it?" and he laid a little pink cocked-hat note on her lap, looking like a mischievous boy as he did so.
 
"'Mon Casimer Teblinski;' I see no joke;" and Amy was about to tear it up, when he caught it from destruction, and holding it out of reach, said, laughing wickedly,—
 
"The 'mon' is one abbreviation of 'monsieur,' but you put no little—how do you say?—period at the end of him; it goes now in English—My Casimer Teblinski,' and that is of the most charming address."
 
Amy colored, but had her return shot ready.
 
"Don't exult; that was only an oversight, not a deliberate deception like that you put upon me. It was very wrong and rude, and I shall not forgive it."
 
"Mon Dieu! where have I gone in sinning! I am a polisson, as I say each day, but not a villain, I swear to you. Say to me that which I have made of wrong, and I will do penance."
 
"You told me 'Ma drogha' was the Polish for 'My pupil,' and let me call you so a long time; I am wiser now," replied Amy, with great dignity.
 
"Who has said stupidities to you, that you doubt me?" and Casimer assumed an injured look, though his eyes danced with merriment.
 
"I heard Hoffman singing a Polish song to little Roserl, the burden of which was, 'Ma drogha, Ma drogha,' and when I asked him to translate it, those two words meant, 'My darling.' How dare you, ungrateful creature that you are!"
 
As Amy spoke, half-confusedly, half-angrily, Casimer went down upon his knees, with folded hands and penitent face, exclaiming, in good English,—
 
"Be merciful to me a sinner. I was tempted, and I could not resist."
 
"Get up this instant, and stop laughing. Say your lesson, for this will be your last," was the stern reply, though Amy's face dimpled all over with suppressed merriment.
 
He rose meekly, but made such sad work with the verb "To love," that his teacher was glad to put an end to it, by proposing to read her French to him. It was "Thaddeus of Warsaw," a musty little translation which she had found in the house, and begun for her own amusement. Casimer read a little, seemed interested, and suggested that they read it together, so that he might correct her accent. Amy agreed, and they were in the heart of the sentimental romance, finding it more interesting than most modern readers, for the girl had an improved Thaddeus before her, and the Pole a fairer, kinder Mary Beaufort.
 
Dangerous times for both, but therein lay the charm; for, though Amy said to herself each night, "Sick, Catholic, and a foreigner,—it can never be," yet each morning she felt, with increasing force, how blank her day would be without him. And Casimer, honorably restraining every word of love, yet looked volumes, and in spite of the glasses, the girl felt the eloquence of the fine eyes they could not entirely conceal.
 
To-day, as she read, he listened with his head leaning on his hand, and though she never had read worse, he made no correction, but sat so motionless, she fancied at last that he had actually fallen asleep. Thinking to rouse him, she said, in French,—
 
"Poor Thaddeus! don't you pity him?—alone, poor, sick, and afraid to own his love."
 
"No, I hate him, the absurd imbecile, with his fine boots and plumes, and tragedy airs. He was not to be pitied, for he recovered health, he found a fortune, he won his Marie. His sufferings were nothing; there was no fatal blight on him, and he had time and power to conquer his misfortunes, while I—"
 
Casimer spoke with sudden passion, and pausing abruptly, turned his face away, as if to hide some emotion he was too proud to show.
 
Amy's heart ached, and her eyes filled, but her voice was sweet and steady, as she said, putting by the book, like one weary of it,—
 
"Are you suffering to-day? Can we do anything for you? Please let us, if we may."
 
"You give me all I can receive; no one can help my pain yet; but a time will come when something may be done for me; then I will speak." And, to her great surprise, he rose and left her............