ss of a child than my granddaughter, who has been brought up by
the Benedictines. You say that she probably does not understand all
that goes on around her. Perhaps not, but she breathes it in. It's
poison-that's what it is!"

There was a good deal of truth in this harsh picture, although it
contained considerable exaggeration.

At this moment, when Madame de Monredon was sitting in judgment on the
education given to the little girls brought up in the world, and on the
ruinous extravagance of their young stepmothers, Madame de Nailles
and Jacqueline--their last visitors having departed--were resting
themselves, leaning tenderly against each other, on a sofa. Jacqueline's
head lay on her mother's lap. Her mother, without speaking, was stroking
the girl's dark hair. Jacqueline, too, was silent, but from time to time
she kissed the slender fingers sparkling with rings, as they came within
reach of her lips.

When M. de Nailles, about dinner-time, surprised them thus, he said,
with satisfaction, as he had often said before, that it would be hard to
find a home scene more charming, as they sat under the light of a lamp
with a pink shade.

That the stepmother and stepdaughter adored each other was beyond a
doubt. And yet, had any one been able to look into their hearts at that
moment, he would have discovered with surprise that each was thinking of
something that she could not confide to the other.

Both were thinking of the same person. Madame de Nailles was occupied
with recollections, Jacqueline with hope. She was absorbed in
Machiavellian strategy, how to realize a hope that had been formed that
very afternoon.

"What are you both thinking of, sitting there so quietly?" said the
Baron, stooping over them and kissing first his wife and then his child.

"About nothing," said the wife, with the most innocent of smiles.

"Oh! I am thinking," said Jacqueline, "of many things. I have a secret,
papa, that I want to tell you when we are quite alone. Don't be jealous,
dear mamma. It is something about a surprise--Oh, a lovely surprise for
you."

"Saint Clotilde's day-my fete-day is still far off," said Madame de
Nailles, refastening, mother-like, the ribbon that was intended to keep
in order the rough ripples of Jacqueline's unruly hair, "and usually
your whisperings begin as the day approaches my fete."

"Oh, dear!--you will go and guess it!" cried Jacqueline in alarm. "Oh!
don't guess it, please."

"Well! I will do