ursed to Pixie on the subject of pictures, of which she knew
nothing; and she switched the conversation round to music, of which he
knew less; and she cast furtive glances of longing towards the other
couple, who were laughing and chattering together with every appearance
of enjoyment, and he kept his eyes rigorously averted, while his chin
drooped ever lower and lower in growing depression. Later on the whole
party played several rather foolish games, of which Pixie had never
heard before, and in which she consequently did not shine, which was
still another depressing circumstance to add to the list.

When Esmeralda escorted her sister upstairs to bed she said blightingly,
"You were very dull to-night, Pixie. Were you shy, by any chance?
_Please_ don't be shy; it's such poor form!" which was not the most
soothing night-cap in the world for a young woman who had privately made
up her mind to take society by storm. Not since the first night in the
dormitory at Holly House had Pixie felt so lone and lorn as she did when
the door was shut, and she was left alone in the big, luxurious bedroom.
She stood before a swing mirror, gazing at her own reflection,
contrasting it with those of Esmeralda and Honor, and reflecting on her
sister's parting words.

"This," said she to herself, with melancholy resignation--"this is the
sort of discipline that is good for the young! At this rate I'll grow
so chastened that they won't recognise me when I go home." For a whole,
minute she stood mute and motionless, pondering over the prospect; then
the light danced back into her eyes, she shrugged her shoulders, and
composedly began her undressing.

The next day broke bright and warm, and after a leisurely breakfast the
four visitors strolled about for an hour, looking at the dogs and horses
and playing with the two small boys, who were making all the mischief
they could on the cedar lawn, while their French nurse looked on with
sympathetic enjoyment.

Marie was quite a character in the household, and was admitted to a
degree of intimacy rarely accorded to an English domestic. She was that
somewhat unusual combination, a Parisian Protestant, but in other
respects remained one of the most typically French creatures who was
ever born. Meet her in any quarter of the world, in any nation, in any
garb, and for no fraction of a moment could the beholder doubt her
nationality. She was French in appearance, in expression, in movement,
in