As to the tin-pedler, it would have relieved his mind to hear
that Mr. Bickford had been carried off suddenly by an apoplectic fit,
and notwithstanding the tie of kindred, he would not have taken the
trouble to put on mourning in his honor.
Harry Walton sat in Oscar Vincent's room, on the last evening of the
term. He had just finished reciting the last French lesson in which
he would have Oscar's assistance for some time to come.
"You have made excellent progress," said Oscar. "It is only two
months since you began French, and now you take a long lesson in
translation."
"That is because I have so good a teacher. But do you think I can
get along without help during the summer?"
"No doubt of it. You may find some difficulties, but those you can
mark, and I will explain when I come back. Or I'll tell you what is
still better. Write to me, and I'll answer. Shall I write in
French?"
"I wish you would, Oscar."
"Then I will. I'm rather lazy with the pen, but I can find time for
you. Besides, it will be a good way for me to keep up my French."
"Shall you be in Boston all summer, Oscar?"
"No; our family has a summer residence at Nahant, a sea-shore place
twelve miles from Boston. Then I hope father will let me travel
about a little on my own account. I want to go to Saratoga and Lake
George."
"That would be splendid.
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