, and went into the market-place to
be hired as a servant.

This was the day of the spring hiring. Many servants were wanting work,
and they stood in the market-place. All around were the old houses of
the square; there was the church and the pastor's house, and the house
and office of the notary, and many other houses standing very close
together, with high-peaked roofs and gable windows. The sun shone down,
lighting the roofs, throwing eaves and niches into strong shadow,
gleaming upon yellow bowls and dishes, upon gay calicoes, upon cheese
and sausages, on all bright things displayed on the open market-stalls,
and upon the faces of the maid-servants who stood to be hired. Many
ladies of the town went about seeking servants: among them was Madame
Verine, and the Russian lady and Marie were with her. When they came in
front of Celeste they all stopped.

'Ah, what eyes!' said the Russian lady--'what simple, innocent, trustful
eyes! In these days how rare!'

'She is like a flower,' said Marie.

Now, they quickly found out that Celeste knew very little about the work
she would have to do; it was because of this she had not yet found a
mistress.

'I myself would delight to teach her,' cried the Russian lady.

'And I,' cried Marie. So Madame Verine took her home.

They taught Celeste many things. Marie taught her to cook and to sew;
the Russian lady taught her to write and to cipher, and was surprised at
the progress she made, especially in writing. Celeste was the more
interesting to them because there was just a shade of sadness in her
eye. One day she told Marie why she was sad; it was the story of
Fernand, how he had used her ill.

'What a shame!' cried Marie, when the brief facts were repeated.

'It is the way of the country,' said the Russian lady. 'These Swiss
peasants, who have so fair a reputation for sobriety, are mercenary
above all: they have no heart.'

Celeste lived with Madame Verine for one year. At the end of that time
Madame Verine arose one morning to find the breakfast was not cooked,
nor the fire lit. In the midst of disorder stood Celeste, with flushed
cheeks and startled eyes, and a letter in her hand.

'Ah, madam,' she faltered, 'what a surprise! The letter, it is from
monsieur the notary, who lives in the market-place, and to me,
madam--_to me_!'

When Madame Verine took the letter she found told therein that an aunt
of Celeste, who had lived far off in the Jura, was dead, and had lef