Baffled, but not beaten, I withdrew, bent as resolutely as ever on finding solitude _somewhere_.
Taking a key whereof I knew the repository, I mounted three staircases in succession, reached a dark, narrow, silent landing, opened a worm-eaten door, and dived into the deep, black, cold garret.

Here none would follow me--none interrupt--not Madame herself.

I shut the garret-door; I placed my light on a doddered and mouldy chest of drawers; I put on a shawl, for the air was ice-cold; I took my letter; trembling with sweet impatience, I broke its seal.
"Will it be long--will it be short ?" thought I, passing my hand across my eyes to dissipate the silvery dimness of a suave, south-wind shower.
It was long.
"Will it be cool ?--will it be kind ?" It was kind.
To my checked, bridled, disciplined expectation, it seemed very kind: to my longing and famished thought it seemed, perhaps, kinder than it was.
So little had I hoped, so much had I feared; there was a fulness of delight in this taste of fruition--such, perhaps, as many a human being passes through life without ever knowing.

The poor English teacher in the frosty garret, reading by a dim candle guttering in the wintry air, a letter simply good-natured--nothing more; though that good-nature then seemed to me godlike--was happier than most queens in palaces.
Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet, while it lasted it was genuine and exquisite: a bubble--but a sweet bubble--of real honey-dew.

Dr.John had written to me at length; he had written to me with pleasure; he had written with benignant mood, dwelling with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his eyes and mine,--on places we had visited together--on conversations we had held--on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last few halcyon weeks.