wetting the floor?"

Aline turned around and looked at the scolder for a moment; then, placing
her watering-pot upon the floor, she darted toward the divan like a
kitten that has just received a blow from its mother's paw and feels
authorized to play with her. Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise at this
unexpected attack; but before she could sit up, she was thrown back upon
the cushions by the young girl, who seized both her hands and kissed her
on each cheek.

"Good gracious! how cross you have been for the last few days!" cried
Aline, pressing her sister's hands. "Are you going to be like your aunt?
You do nothing but scold now. What have I done? Are you vexed with me? Do
you not love me any longer?"

Clemence felt a sort of remorse at this question, asked with such a
loving accent; but her jealousy she could not overcome. To make up for
it, she kissed her sister-in-law with a show of affection which seemed to
satisfy the latter.

"What are you reading?" asked the young girl, picking up the book which
had fallen to the floor in their struggle--"Notre Dame de Paris. That
must be interesting! Will you let me read it? Oh! do! will you?"

"You know very well that my aunt has forbidden you to read novels."

"Oh! she does that just to annoy me and for no other reason. Do you think
that is right? Must I remain an idiot, and never read anything but
history and geography the rest of my life? As if I did not know that
Louis Thirteenth was the son of Henri Fourth, and that there are
eighty-six departments in France. You read novels. Does it do you any
harm?"

Clemence replied in a rather imperative tone, which should have put an
end to the discussion.

"When you are married you can do as you like. Until then you must leave
your education in the hands of those who are interested in you."

"All my friends," replied Aline with a pout, "have relatives who are
interested in them, at least as much as your aunt is in me, and they do
not prevent their reading the books they like. There is Claire de
Saponay, who has read all of Walter Scott's novels, Maleck-Adel, Eugenie
and Mathilde--and I do not know how many more; Gessner, Mademoiselle de
Lafayette--she has read everything; and I--they have let me read Numa
Ponzpilius and Paul and Virginia. Isn't that ridiculous at sixteen years
of age?"

"Do not get excited, but go into the library and get one of Walter
Scott's novels; but do not let my aunt know anything about it."

At