"I know, Mademoiselle, and that is all I can say. And when the time
comes for your wish to be granted, you will see if I am not right."

"Shall I?" said Jeanne, half impressed, half rebellious. "Do the fairies
tell you things, Marcelline? Not that I believe there are any
fairies--not now, any way."

"Don't say that, Mademoiselle," said Marcelline. "In that country I have
told you of no one ever said such a thing as that."

"Why didn't they? Did they really _see_ fairies there?" asked Jeanne,
lowering her voice a little.

"Perhaps," said Marcelline; but that was all she _would_ say, and Jeanne
couldn't get her to tell her any fairy stories, and had to content
herself with making them for herself instead out of the queer shapes of
the burning wood of the fire.

She was so busy with these fancies that she did not hear the stopping of
the click-click of Marcelline's knitting needles, nor did she hear the
old nurse get up from her chair and go out of the room. A few minutes
before, the _facteur_ had rung at the great wooden gates of the
courtyard--a rather rare event, for in those days letters came only
twice a week--but this, too, little Jeanne had not heard. She must have
grown drowsy with the quiet and the heat of the fire, for she quite
started when the door again opened, and Marcelline's voice told her that
her mother wanted her to go down to the salon, she had something to say
to her.

"O Marcelline," said Jeanne, rubbing her eyes, "I didn't know you had