ell has ta'en his good-night.'

LORD MAXWELL'S _Good-night_.

Madame La Comtesse de Bourke was by no means a helpless fine lady. She
had several times accompanied her husband on his expeditions, and had
only not gone with him to Madrid because he did not expect to be long
absent, and she sorely rued the separation.

She was very busy in her own room, superintending the packing, and
assisting in it, when her own clever fingers were more effective than
those of her maids. She was in her _robe de chambre_, a dark blue
wrapper, embroidered with white, and put on more neatly than was always
the case with French ladies in _deshabille_. The hoop, long stiff stays,
rich brocade robe, and fabric of powdered hair were equally unsuitable to
ease or exertion, and consequently were seldom assumed till late in the
day, when the toilette was often made in public.

So Madame de Bourke's hair was simply rolled out of her way, and she
appeared in her true colours, as a little brisk, bonny woman, with no
actual beauty, but very expressive light gray eyes, furnished with
intensely long black lashes, and a sweet, mobile, lively countenance.

Estelle was trying to amuse little Jacques, and prevent him from trotting
between the boxes, putting all sorts of undesirable goods into them; and
Ulysse had collected his toys, and was pleading earnestly that a headless
wooden horse and a kite, twice as tall as himself, of Lanty's
manufacture, might go with them.

He was told that another _cerf-volant_ should be made for him at the
journey's end; but was only partially consoled, and his mother was fain
to compound for a box of woolly lambs. Estelle winked away a tear when
her doll was rejected, a wooden, highly painted lady, bedizened in
brocade, and so dear to her soul that it was hard to be told that she was
too old for such toys, and that the Swedes would be shocked to see the
Ambassador's daughter embracing a doll. She had, however, to preserve
her character of a reasonable child, and tried to derive consolation from
the permission to bestow 'Mademoiselle' upon the _concierge's_ little
sick daughter, who would be sure to cherish her duly.

'But, oh mamma, I pray you to let me take my book!'

'Assuredly, my child. Let us see! What? Telemaque? Not "Prince
Percinet and Princess Gracieuse?"'

'I am tired of them, mamma.'

'Nor Madame d'Aulnoy's Fairy Tales?'

'Oh no, thank you, mamma; I love nothing so well as Telemaque.'

'Th