One of Miss Miranda's duties had been to teach optional French, and one of Miss Miranda's delights had been to dictate this very poem of Victor Hugo's to her pupils for learning by heart.

It was Miss Miranda's sole French poem, and she imposed it with unfading delight on the successive generations whom she 'grounded' in French.
Hilda had apparently forgotten most of her French, but as she now read the poem (for the first time in print), it re-established itself in her memory as the most lovely verse that she had ever known, and the recitations of it in Miss Miranda's small classroom came back to her with an effect beautiful and tragic.

And also there was the name of Victor Hugo, which Miss Miranda's insistent enthusiasm had rendered sublime and legendary to a sensitive child! Hilda now saw the sacred name stamped in gold on a whole set of elegant volumes! It was marvellous that she should have turned the page containing just that poem! It was equally marvellous that she should have discovered the works of Victor Hugo in the matter-of-fact office of Mr.Cannon! But was it?
Was he not half-French, and were not these books precisely a corroboration of what her mother had told her?
Mr.Cannon's origin at once assumed for her the strange seductive hues of romance; he shared the glory of Victor Hugo.

Then the voices in the corridor ceased, and with a decisive movement he unlatched the door.

She relinquished the book and calmly sat down as he entered.
III "Of course, your mother's told you ?" "Yes." "I had no difficulty at all.