little as I; the
country you will never tell me the name of. Oh, I do like that one about
the Golden Princess shut up in the castle by the sea! I like stories
about princesses best of all. I do wish I were a princess; next to my
best wish of all, I wish to be a princess. Marcelline, do you hear? I
want you to tell me a story."

Still Marcelline did not reply. She in her turn was looking into the
fire. Suddenly she spoke.

"One, two, three," she said. "Quick, now, Mademoiselle, quick, quick.
Wish a wish before that last spark is gone. Quick, Mademoiselle."

"Oh dear, what shall I wish?" exclaimed Jeanne. "When you tell me to be
quick it all goes out of my head; but I know now. I wish----"

"Hush, Mademoiselle," said Marcelline, quickly again. "You must not say
it aloud. Never mind, it is all right. You have wished it before the
spark is gone. It will come true, Mademoiselle."

Jeanne's bright dark eyes glanced up at Marcelline with an expression of
mingled curiosity and respect.

"How do you know it will come true?" she said.

Marcelline's old eyes, nearly as bright and dark still as Jeanne's own,
had a half-mischievous look in them as she replied, solemnly shaking her
head,

"I know, Mademoiselle, and that is all I can say. And when the time
comes for your wish to be granted, you will see if I am not right."

"Shall I?" said Jeanne, half impressed, half rebellious. "Do the fairies
tell you things, Marcelline? Not that I believe there are any
fairies--not now, any way."

"Don't say that, Mademoiselle," said Marcelline. "In that country I have
told you of no one ever said such a thing as that."

"Why didn't they? Did they really _see_ fairies there?" asked Jeanne,
lowering her voice a little.

"Perhaps," said Marcelline; but that was all she _would_ say, and Jeanne
couldn't get her to tell her any fairy stories, and had to content
herself with making them for herself instead out of the queer shapes of
the burning wood of the fire.

She was so busy with these fancies that she did not hear the stopping of
the click-click of Marcelline's knitting needles, nor did she hear the
old nurse get up from her chair and go out of the room. A few minutes
before, the _facteur_ had rung at the great wooden gates of the
courtyard--a rather rare event, for in those days letters came only
twice a week--but this, too, little Jeanne had not heard. She must have
grown drowsy with the quiet and the heat of the fire, for she qui