which had had for her since her babyhood a mingled fascination and awe.
It was hung with tapestry, very old, and in some parts faded, but still
distinct. As Jeanne passed by the door of this room, she noticed that it
was open, and the gleam of the faint moonlight on the snow-covered
garden outside attracted her.

"I can see the terrace ever so much better from the tapestry room
window," she said to herself. "I wonder what Dudu is doing, poor old
fellow. Oh, how cold he must be! I suppose Grignan is asleep in a hole
in the hedge, and the chickens will be all right any way. I have not
seen Houpet all day."

"Houpet" was Jeanne's favourite of the three chickens. He had come by
his name on account of a wonderful tuft of feathers on the top of his
head, which stuck straight up and then waved down again, something like
a little umbrella. No doubt he was a very rare and wonderful chicken,
and if I were clever about chickens I would be able to tell you all his
remarkable points. But that I cannot do. I can only say he was the
queerest-looking creature that ever pecked about a poultry-yard, and how
it came to pass that Jeanne admired him so, I cannot tell you either.

"Poor Houpet!" she repeated, as she ran across the tapestry room to the
uncurtained window; "I am sure he must have been very sad without me all
day. He has such a loving heart. The others are nice too, but not half
so loving. And Grignan has no heart at all; I suppose tortoises never
have; only he is very comical, which is nearly as nice. As for Dudu, I
really cannot say, he is so stuck up, as if he knew better than any one
else. Ah, there he is, the old fellow! Well, Dudu," she called out, as
if the raven could have heard her so far off and through the closely
shut window; "well, Dudu, how are you to-day, my dear sir? How do you