s of distress; she discoursed exhaustively upon the
weather to every one who could be induced to listen, and recited
exercise phrases to the school cat until her tongue grew quite nimble
over the words.

Mademoiselle was an object of intense interest and curiosity to her new
pupil. She was the first foreigner whom Pixie had known, and there was
something in her dark, eager face which arrested the child's attention.
Mademoiselle was quick and nervous, subject to fits of unreasonable
irritation; but at other times there was a sad, far-away look in her
eyes, and then her voice would take a softer cadence, so that when she
said "Cherie," one pupil at least forgot all the scoldings which had
gone before. Pixie felt irresistibly drawn to Mademoiselle in her hours
of depression. She could not have explained the attraction, but in her
heart she felt that they were both exiles, and that Mademoiselle pined
for her own sunny land, even as she pined for the dear green isle which
seemed so far away. She longed for Mademoiselle to notice her, to show
her some special mark of favour, but longed in vain, until at last a day
dawned which brought her into notice in a manner which was scarcely to
her liking.

It was a wet Saturday afternoon, and wet Saturday afternoons are
abominations to every boarding-school girl, and the cause of endless
grumblings and repinings. Ethel and Kate had gone out to tea with an
old maiden lady who lived in the neighbourhood, and had still further
deepened their friend's depression before departing by drawing a most
roseate picture of the joys before them.

"She is awfully kind," they had explained of their hostess; "she gives
you the most galumptious teas, and the best part of it is, she has an e-
normous appetite herself, so you can eat as much as you like, without
fear of looking greedy!"

No wonder the poor stay-at-homes looked glum after this; no wonder they
sighed with envy as they thought of the thick bread-and-butter in store
for themselves. The elder girls provided themselves with books, and sat
in rows before the fire, while artistic spirits set themselves copies,
and filled up page after page of their sketching-books. Flora stitched
on a table-centre destined to be a birthday present for her mother, and
the younger girls clustered round Pixie, and besought her to think of
some new means of amusement.

"Think of something, Pixie-doo! It's so dull, and we are sick of the
stupid old game