e to her
children when she had grown up to be a lady, married to some very nice
gentleman.

And when Jeanne chattered like that, Marcelline used to smile; she never
said anything, she just smiled. Sometimes Jeanne liked to see her
smile; sometimes it would make her impatient, and she would say, "Why do
you smile like that, Marcelline? _Speak!_ When I speak I like you to
speak too."

But all she could get Marcelline to answer would be, "Well,
Mademoiselle, it is very well what you say."

This evening--or perhaps I should say afternoon, for whatever hour the
chickens' timepiece made it, it was only half-past three by the great
big clock that stood at the end of the long passage by Jeanne's room
door;--this afternoon Jeanne was not quite as lively as she sometimes
was. She sat down on the floor in front of the fire and stared into it.
It was pretty to look at just then, for the wood was burning redly, and
at the tiniest touch a whole bevy of lovely sparks would fly out like
bees from a hive, or a covey of birds, or better still, like a thousand
imprisoned fairies escaping at some magic touch. Of all things, Jeanne
loved to give this magic touch. There was no poker, but she managed just
as well with a stick of unburnt wood, or sometimes, when she was _quite_
sure Marcelline was not looking, with the toe of her little shoe. Just
now it was Marcelline who set the fairy sparks free by moving the logs a
little and putting on a fresh one behind.

"How pretty they are, are they not, Marcelline?" said Jeanne.

Marcelline did not speak, and when Jeanne looked up at her, she saw by
the light of the fire that she was smiling. Jeanne held up her
forefinger.

"Naughty Marcelline," she said; "you are not to smile. You are to
_speak_. I want you to speak very much, for it is so dull, and I have
nothing to do. I want you to tell me stories, Marcelline. Do you hear,
you naughty little thing?"

"And what am I to tell you stories about then, Mademoiselle? You have
got all out of my old head long ago; and when the grain is all ground
what can the miller do?"

"Get some more, of course," said Jeanne. "Why, _I_ could make stories if
I tried, I daresay, and I am only seven, and you who are a hundred--are
you _quite_ a hundred, Marcelline?"

Marcelline shook her head.

"Not _quite_, Mademoiselle," she said.

"Well, never mind, you are old enough to make stories, any way. Tell me
more about the country where you lived when you were