ewsboy in the street called me, 'The Little Chocolate Girl!'"

IV.--MARGOT: THE MARTYR.

I.

AT SCHOOL.

"Mademoiselle Margot, Professor Revere's daughter, who has come to share
your English studies, girls," said Miss Melford, presenting a tall,
clear-complexioned, sweet-faced girl one May morning on the opening of
school.

The new-comer bowed gracefully, and then took a vacant seat next to me,
and we all took good-natured notice of her, for her black frock was worn
for her newly lost mother, and her father, our popular French master,
was an exile, who for a supposed political offence had forfeited his
estate, near La Ville Sonnante, as the old city of Avignon is often
called. Margot would have been _une grande demoiselle_ in her own
country had not monsieur fallen under the displeasure of a powerful
cabinet minister during a change of _regime_, and Miss Melford's girls
were of opinion that the position would have suited her, and she the
position.

Mademoiselle Margot soon interested us all, not only in herself, but in
her antecedents and prospects. She was never tired of talking of her old
associations, and that with an enthusiasm that aroused our sympathy and
inspired our hopes.

"Picture to yourself," she would say, "Mon Desir on a summer's day, the
lawns spreading out their lovely carpet for the feet, the trees waving
their glorious foliage overhead, the birds singing in the branches, the
bees humming in the parterre, and the water plashing in the fountains.
_Maman_ loved it, as I did, and the country people loved us as we loved
them. _Maman_ used to say, 'A little sunshine, a little love, a little
self-denial, that is life.' Even had we been poor there, walked instead
of ridden, ate brown bread in lieu of white, we should have been amongst
our own people. But now----"

Then we would all crowd round her and spin romances about the Prince
Charming who would come her way, and present her with Mon Desir, with
all its dear delights, and with it--his own hand.

Margot's failing was a too sensitive pride. She was proud both of and
for the professor. She could not forget that he was, as she would say,
_un grand gentilhomme_, that his ancestors had fought with Bayard and
Turenne, had been gentlemen-in-waiting to kings, had wedded women who
were ladies of the court.

I discovered this slight fault of my darling's on one occasion in this
way: as we girls were going our usual noonday walk, we came to a l