else, and she never was offended at anything. She was so old that for
many years no one had seen much difference in her--she had reached a
sort of settled oldness, like an arm-chair which may once have been
covered with bright-coloured silk, but which, with time and wear, has
got to have an all-over-old look which never seems to get any worse. Not
that Marcelline was dull or grey to look at--she was bright and cheery,
and when she had a new clean cap on, all beautifully frilled and crimped
round her face, Jeanne used to tell her that she was beautiful, quite
beautiful, and that if she was _very_ good and always did exactly what
Jeanne asked her, she--Jeanne--would have her to be nurse to her
children when she had grown up to be a lady, married to some very nice
gentleman.

And when Jeanne chattered like that, Marcelline used to smile; she never
said anything, she just smiled. Sometimes Jeanne liked to see her
smile; sometimes it would make her impatient, and she would say, "Why do
you smile like that, Marcelline? _Speak!_ When I speak I like you to
speak too."

But all she could get Marcelline to answer would be, "Well,
Mademoiselle, it is very well what you say."

This evening--or perhaps I should say afternoon, for whatever hour the
chickens' timepiece made it, it was only half-past three by the great
big clock that stood at the end of the long passage by Jeanne's room
door;--this afternoon Jeanne was not quite as lively as she sometimes
was. She sat down on the floor in front of the fire and stared into it.
It was pretty to look at just then, for the wood was burning redly, and
at the tiniest touch a whole bevy of lovely sparks would fly out like
bees from a hive, or a covey of birds, or better still, like a thousand