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 "This is our little one, Armand," said my mother. "I have
taken her home, judging that it is time to complete her
education, and also for a companion."

"That is well," said he. "Come hither, my little one, and

see thy father."

I approached timidly, bent my knee, and kissed the

hand he held out to me.

He laid the other on my head and solemnly gave me his

blessing. Then, holding me off and looking at me:

"Why, 'tis a true Corbet," said he; "the very image of

thy mother, dearest Margaret." Then with a sudden change
of tone, "I only wish she and thou were safe in the dear old
mother's wing, the gray house at Tre Madoc."

My mother's pale cheek flushed a little. "Has anything

new happened?" she asked.

"New? Yes! The vultures are gathering to the carcass,

Margaret. We are to be left in peace no longer in our quiet
corner. The old convent at Sartilly is opened once more with
a band of nuns and a black Dominican for a confessor. They
call it a hospital—we all know what that means nowadays."

My mother threw an arm round me as if to protect me,

and I felt it tremble.

"Then that was what the curé meant," said I, struck

with a sudden light. I was a quick child, and the danger
which was always in the background sharpened the wits of
all children of the Religion. "That was what he meant by the
wolves!" And then, struck by the impropriety I had
committed in speaking without being addressed, I faltered,
"I beg your pardon, monsieur."
 "There is no offence, my child; and you must not say
monsieur, but my father," said he, sitting down and drawing
me to him. "Tell me what was that about the curé and the
wolves."

I repeated my story.

"You are a clear-headed little maiden," said he, "and

have a quick wit. What did Simon Sablot think of the
matter?"

"He said, monsieur—my father," I added, correcting

myself, "that the good man meant to give us a warning, and
had probably made his errand on purpose."

"More likely to spy out the nakedness of the land,"

muttered Grace, to whom all priests were alike.

"Nay, my Grace, do the poor man justice," said my

father. "The Jesuits cannot make the whole nation over into
tigers, not even the priests. The poor old man has grown-up
on our lands, as his father did before him, and I believe he
feels kindly toward us. But I wish, oh I wish thou and the
little one were in safety, my Marguerite."

My mother said some words in English which I did not

understand, and then in French, "But what shall we do,
Armand, to guard against this new danger?"

"We can only do as we have done in our family, but I

fear we must abandon our Sunday gatherings for the
present. The risk will be too great with such neighbors to
spy upon us. But we will consult together. Run away now,
my little one, and explore the house, only do not go into the
upper rooms of the round tower. Some of the floors are
dangerous. However, you may go to the battlements if you
like. The stairs are safe enough."
 "Only return at once when you hear the bell," said my
mother. "To-day shall be a holiday for you; to-morrow we
will begin our lessons. But first go with Grace and let her
take your measure."

"Why is it so dangerous to have a hospital at Sartilly?" I

ventured to ask Grace at a pause in her operations. "I
thought a hospital was a place where poor sick people were
taken care of."

"So it is in a Christian land, mademoiselle," answered

Grace; "there are many such in England. But now and here,
a hospital means a place where young people of the
Religion are shut up away from their parents and taught to
worship images and say prayers to the Virgin and the saints
—yes, pretty saints some of them," she added, in English.
"There, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. It is not good
manners to speak in a foreign tongue before those who do
not understand it."

"Madame says she will teach me English soon," I

observed. "I shall like that, if it is not too hard."

"Oh, it will not be hard to you; you are half an English

woman," replied Grace.

"And will you tell me tales sometimes about England,

and the place where my mother lived when she was a
young lady? I shall like so much to hear them. I love to look
at Jersey when we can see it, because it is a part of
England."

Grace's heart was quite won by this request. She kissed

me, and called me a pretty dear in her own tongue, which
phrase, of course, I did not understand, only I saw that it
meant something kind and friendly.
 Once released, I ran all over the house, peeped into the
great old kitchen, where I received many welcomes and
blessings from the old servants, and ascended to the top of
the round tower to gaze at the sea and at Mount St.
Michael, now glowing in the autumn sunshine. True to the
habits of implicit obedience in which I had been brought up,
I did not even open the door which led into the upper floors
of the tower, though I confess to a strong temptation to do
so.

I admired the salon hung with tapestry and adorned

with carved furniture and various grim family pictures. I
wondered what was in the cabinets, and studied the story of
Judith worked in the hangings, and had not half finished my
survey, when the bell rang, and I hastened to my mother's
room.

We dined in considerable state, being waited on by two

men servants, while Mistress Grace stood behind her lady's
chair and directed their movements. The fare, though plain
enough, was dainty compared to what I was accustomed to
at the cottage, and I should have enjoyed my dinner only
for a feeling of awkwardness, and a look in Mistress Grace's
eyes as if she were longing to pounce upon me. I got
pounced upon many a time after that, fur great stress was
laid upon table etiquette in those days. More than once I
was sent away from the table in disgrace, not so much for
mistakes I made, as for fuming or pouting at having them
corrected.

The next day my lessons began. I had my task of

Scripture and the Catechism to learn, as at the cottage.
Great stress was laid in the families of the Religion on this
learning of the Scriptures, and with good reason, for we
were liable at any time to be deprived of our Bibles, or
indeed to be shut up where we could not have read if we
had them; but that which was stored in our minds no one
could take from us. I learned to write and began English,
and, thanks to the pains and skill of my mother and the
conversations I held with Mrs. Grace in our working hours, I
soon learned to speak the language with considerable
fluency, as well as to read in two or three English books
which my mother possessed. I learned to spin on the little
wheel which my mother had had sent her from England,
and was greatly delighted when I was allowed to carry down
to Mother Jeanne some skeins of thread of my own
manufacture.

"But it is beautiful—no less," said Jeanne; "and done,

you say, not with spindle and distaff, but with the little
machine I have seen in madame's boudoir. See, Lucille, my
child!"

"It is good thread, but I do not see that it much better

than ours," said Lucille, somewhat slightingly. "And I do not
see why one should take so much pains to learn to spin in
this new fashion. The spindle and distaff are much better, I
think, because they can be carried about with one. I can
spin when I am going to the fountain for water or to the
pasture for the cows. Vevette cannot do that with her grand
wheel."

"That is true," said I, a little taken down; "but one can

accomplish so much more. My mother can spin more with
the wheel in an hour than one can do with the distaff in half
a day, and I am sure the thread is more even."

"Ah, well, the method of my grandmother is good

enough for me," said Lucille. "I am a Norman girl, and not
an English lady." And she took up her distaff as she spoke,
and began drawing out her flax with a care and attention
which showed she was offended.
 "Do you think, Mamselle Vevette, that madame would
condescend to let me look at this wheel of hers?" said
David. "I should like so much to see it."

"Why, do you think you could make one like it?" I

asked. "Oh, do, David! Make one for Lucille, and I will teach
her to use it."

"Thank you!" said Lucille in a tone which did not

bespeak much gratitude. "I have already said that Norman
fashions are good enough for me."

And then, softening her tone as she saw how mortified I

was, "I dare say David would like to make a wheel, and if
he succeeded, you would have one of your own as well as
madame."

I may as well say here that, after many efforts and

failures, and by the help of his uncle, who was the
blacksmith at Sartilly, David succeeded in constructing a
very nice spinning-wheel, which he presented to me on my
birthday. I wonder whether that wheel is still in use, or
whether it has been thrown aside in some garret?
 CHAPTER III.
YOUTHFUL DAYS.

I MUST now pass somewhat rapidly over four or five

years of my life. These years were spent quietly at home
with my dear father and mother at the Tour d'Antin.

I was my mother's constant companion, and she

instructed me herself in all that she thought it desirable for
me to know, which was much more than was considered
necessary for demoiselles in general. I learned to read and
write both English and Italian, and I read many books in the
former language which my mother had brought from home,
or which had been sent to her from England since her
marriage. These books would hardly have passed any
French custom-house, for a very sharp lookout was kept at
these places for heretical publications; but there were two
or three vessels sailing from small ports on the coast, and
commanded by persons of the Religion, by means of which,
at rare intervals, my mother used to receive a package or
letter from her friends in England.

Thus she become possessed of a copy of that most

excellent book, "The Whole Duty of Man," which I read till I
knew it almost by heart; "The Practice of Piety," Mr. Taylor's
"Holy Living and Dying," and other excellent religious books
of which that age, dissolute as it was, produced a great
many. Sometimes my mother received other books and
pamphlets, which she would not allow me even to look at,
and many of which she burned with her own hands. These
were plays and stories written by such authors as were in
favor at the court of King Charles II.

The greatest disgrace I ever fell into with my parents

came from stealing one of these books, and hiding myself
away in the old tower to read it. It was a very witty play,
and I was at first delighted with it, but my conscience soon
made me aware that it was a wicked book; for, though of
course I did not half understand it, I could see how profane
it was, and how lightly and wickedly the most sacred name
was used. My mother missed the book when she came to
put away the contents of the package, and asked me
whether I had seen it.

"No, maman," I answered; but I was not used to lying,

and my face betrayed me. I was forced to confess and bring
back the book. My mother's stern anger was all the more
dreadful to me that she was usually so gentle. She would
hear of no excuse or palliation.

"You have deceived me!" said she. "My daughter, whom

I trusted, has lied to me. To gain a few moments of guilty
pleasure, she has disobeyed her mother, and shamefully
lied to conceal her disobedience. I want no words. I must
quiet my own spirit before I talk with you. Go to your own
room, and remain till you have permission to leave it. Think
what you have done, and ask pardon of Him whom you
have offended, and who abhors a lie."

I did as I was bid; but in no humble spirit. On the

contrary, my heart was full of wrath and rebellion. In my
own mind, I accused my mother of harsh unkindness in
making, as I said to myself, such a fuss about such a little
matter. Always inclined to be hard and stubborn under
reproof, I was determined to justify myself in my own eyes.
I said to myself that I was unjustly treated, that there was
no such harm in reading a story-book, and so forth, and I
set myself to remember all I possibly could of the play, and
to form in my own mind an image of the world which it
described.

Oh, if I could only live in a great city—in London or Paris

—instead of such a lonely old place as the Tour d'Antin! But
by degrees my conscience made itself heard. I remembered
how kind and good my mother had always been to me: how
she had laid aside her own employments to amuse me that
I might not feel the want of companions of my own age; in
short, when my mother came to me at bedtime, I was as
penitent and humble as she could desire. She forgave me,
and talked to me very kindly of my fault.

"Never, never, read a bad book, my child," she said.

"You thereby do yourself an incalculable injury. We have not
the power of forgetting anything. However deeply our
impressions may be covered by others, they are still in
existence, and likely to be revived at any time. No man can
touch pitch and not be defiled, and no one can read and
take pleasure in a bad book without being led into sin. You
become like what your mind dwells upon. 'As a man
thinketh, so is he.' Thus by thinking of and meditating upon
the deeds of good men, and more especially those of our
dear Lord, we are made like them, and are changed into the
same image. This caution in reading is especially needful to
you, my Vevette, as you are by nature facile and easily
impressed."

"But, maman, why does my uncle send such books?" I

ventured to ask.
 My mother sighed.

"Your uncle, my love, does not think of such things as I

do. He lives in the world of the court, where these things
which your father and I consider all-important are but little
regarded, or, if thought of at all, are considered as subjects
for mockery."

"But, maman, I thought all English people were of the

Religion. I thought they used the beautiful prayers in your
prayer-book."

My mother sighed again.

"That is true, my child, but it is possible to hold the

truth in unrighteousness. Here, where to be of the Religion
is to put one's neck into the halter, there is no temptation to
the careless and dissolute to join our numbers. Yet even
here, under the very cross of persecution, the church is far
from perfect. But we will talk more another time."

I was so penitent and so humbled in my own eyes that I

made no objection when my mother deprived me of my two
grand sources of amusement, the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip
Sidney, and Mr. Edmund Spenser's "The Faerie Queene,"
telling me that she should not let me have them again for a
month.

I am somewhat inclined to doubt the wisdom of this

measure. I know it threw me back upon myself for
amusement in the hours when I was deprived of my
mother's society, and left me more time to meditate, or
rather, I should say, to dream of that fairy-land to which the
volume of plays had introduced me.

However, I had them back again at the end of a

fortnight, and with them a new book—a great quarto
volume of voyages and travels, with several historical
pieces, collected by Mr. Hackluyt, formerly a preacher to
Queen Elizabeth. This gave a new turn to my thoughts. I
rejoiced in the destruction of the great Armada, and wept
while I exulted over the glorious death of Sir Richard
Greville, and travelled to the Indies and the New World and
dreamed over their marvels.

When I went, as I did now and then, to visit my old

friends at the farm, I entertained David with these tales by
the hour together, and even Lucille forgot her jealousy to
listen. What castles in the air we built on the margins of
those great rivers, and what colonies we planted in those
unknown lands—colonies where those of the Religion were
to find a peaceful refuge, and from which all the evils
incident to humanity were to be excluded! They were
harmless dreams at the least, and served to amuse us for
many a long hour. I have seen some of these colonies since
then, and have learned that wherever man goes his three
great foes—the world, the flesh, and the devil—go also.

Our new neighbors at the hospital of St. Jacques—St.

James indeed! I should like to hear what he would have said
to them—gave us little trouble for some time. Indeed, they
had troubles enough of their own. They were hardly settled
in their new abode before a dreadful pestilential fever broke
out among them, and several of the nuns died, while others
were so reduced that there were not enough of well to tend
the sick.

The French country people have a great dread of

infection, so that nobody would go near them; and I don't
know but they would have starved only that my father
himself on one or two occasions carried them provisions,
wine, and comforts for the sick.
 There was great talk about the sickness, and those of
the Religion did not hesitate to ascribe it to the pestiferous
air of the cellars and vaults, which were known to be very
extensive, and in which several persons had died after long
confinement.

"It is the avenging ghost of poor Denise Amblot, who

perished there with her infant," said old Marie, our cook.

"Not so, my Marie," answered my mother. "Denise has

long been in paradise, if indeed she did perish as reported,
and is happily in better employments than avenging herself
on these poor creatures. Yet it may well be that the bad air
of the vaults so long used as prisons may have poisoned
those living over them."

After the fever came a fire, which broke out

mysteriously and consumed all the fuel and provisions
which the nuns had laid up for winter; and, to crown all, a
sort of reservoir or pond, supposed by some to be artificial,
which supplied a stream running through the convent
grounds, burst its barriers one night after a heavy storm of
rain. The muddy torrent, bearing everything before it—
trees, walls, and even the very rocks in its course—swept
through the garden and washed away the soil itself, besides
filling the church with mud and debris half way up to the
roof. Whether the hand of man had anything to do with
these disasters I do not know, but it is not impossible.

At any rate, the two or three nuns who were left

returned to Avranches, from whence they had come, and
the place was again abandoned to the owls and other
doleful creatures which haunt deserted buildings.

Meantime all over France the tide of persecution was

rising and spreading, carrying ruin and devastation far and
wide. There was no more any safety for those of the
Religion. From all sides came the story of terror, of
bereavement, of oppression, of flight. Every day brought
new infringements of the edict, new encroachments on our
rights and liberties.

The very sick and dying—nay, they more than any

others—were objects of attack. Every physician was
ordered, on pain of a heavy fine at the least, to give notice
to the mayor and the priest of the parish whenever he was
called upon to visit one of the Religion. Then the sick man
was besieged with arguments, with threats, and horrible
representations of the present and the future. If he yielded,
which was seldom the case, his conversion was trumpeted
as a triumph of the faith. If he persevered, as ninety-nine
out of a hundred did, he was left to perish without help or
medicine, and his dead body was cast out like a dog's in the
next ditch.

It was at the peril of life that a mother repeated to her

dying child, or a child to its parent, a few comforting texts
of Scripture or a hymn. The alms collected among the
Reformed for the solace of their own poor were seized upon
and used for the maintenance of the so-called hospitals,
which were simply prisons where young people and women
were shut up, and every effort made, both by threats and
cajolery, to induce them "to return to the bosom of their
tender and gentle mother the Church," that was the favorite
phrase. A few gave way and were set at liberty, but of
these, the most part sooner or later recanted their
recantations, with bitter tears of penitence and shame.

But those mothers and fathers who knew that their

dead were dead, and entered into the rest of their Lord,
were happy in comparison with others, whose sons were in
the galleys chained to the oar with the vilest of the vile,
with felons and murderers, sleeping on their benches if at
sea, driven by the lash like brute cattle to pestiferous
dungeons if on land, and liable at any time to be
condemned to perpetual imprisonment or shot down and
cast to the waves. And even these had not the worst of it.

There were hundreds of mothers who were entirely in

the dark as to the fate of their daughters. The convents all
over the land were filled with such girls, seduced from their
homes on any or no pretext, and dragged away, never to be
seen again. Whether they recanted and were made nuns,
whether they remained firm and suffered imprisonment and
a horrible death, their fate was equally unknown to their
friends. In some of the convents, no doubt, were
conscientious women, who did their duty according to their
lights, and were as kind to their prisoners as circumstances
permitted; but there were others who sought to augment
their treasure of good works and win heaven, as they say,
by exercising every severity, and trampling upon any
natural feelings of compassion which might arise in their
breasts.

Worse still, many convents were known to be schools of

worldliness and vice, where the most dissolute manners
prevailed. This was notably the case with the rich houses
near Paris, where the superiors were often appointed by the
king's mistress for the time being, and the convent was a
resort for the young gentlemen of the court.

But it was upon the pastors that the vials of wrath were
most lavishly poured out. Some, whose flocks were already
scattered, escaped to foreign lands, but many remained
behind to comfort their afflicted brethren. These were never
for one moment in security. They journeyed from place to
place in all sorts of disguises. They slept in dens and caves
of the earth, or under the open sky; holding a midnight
meeting here, comforting a dying person or a bereaved
parent there; now celebrating the Lord's Supper, in some
lonely grange or barn, to those of the faithful who had
risked everything to break together the bread of life once
more; now baptizing a babe, perhaps by the bedside of its
dying mother, or uniting some loving and faithful pair of
lovers who wished to meet the evils of life together. *

* See any collection of Huguenot memoirs.

Hunted down like wild beasts, they were condemned, if

captured, to the gallows or the wheel, without even the
pretence of a trial, after all temptations of pardons and
rewards had failed to shake their faith. Now and then—very
rarely—some one abjured; but, as I have said, these usually
abjured their abjuration at the first opportunity, or died in
agonies of remorse and despair.

As I have remarked before, our narrow corner of the

world had hitherto got off easily, and we lived in
comparative safety and in friendship with our neighbors.
But the time was coming, and close at hand, when the
storm was to reach alike the lofty aerie and the lowly nest.

My mother, I believe, would have been glad to emigrate

at once. She thought with longings inexpressible of her
quiet English home in the valley of Tre Madoc, of the old red
stone house overhung with trees, where dwelt peace and
quietness, with none to molest or make afraid; of the little
gray church on the moor, with its tall tower, which served as
a beacon to the wandering sailor, where the pure word of
God was preached, and the old people and little children
came every Sunday.
 My mother always loved the English Church. She kept
her prayer-book by her, and used to read it every day. She
taught me many precious lessons out of it, so that when I
was twelve years old, I knew it almost by heart. This love of
hers for the English Church was in some degree shared by
my father, and, as I heard afterward, was a reason for his
being looked coldly upon by some of the Religion, to whom
the very name of bishop was an abomination; and no
wonder, since with them it was another name for oppressor
and persecutor. But they found, when the trial came, that
the Chevalier d'Antin and his gentle lady were as ready to
put all to hazard for their faith as the best of them.

As I have said, my mother was desirous of emigrating,

as so many others had done. But my father would not
consent to forsake his poor tenants and peasants, many of
whom had come with him from Provence. He thought
himself in some sort their shepherd, and responsible for
their welfare.

This was a very different estimation from that in which

some of our neighbors held their people. There were three
or four large estates about Avranches and St. Lo, the
owners of which lived in Paris the year round, or followed
the court in its movements, and left their lands and people
to the care of agents, taking no thought for them except to
extract from them as much money as possible.

But such was not my father's idea. He held that every

large landowner was a steward under God, responsible for
the welfare of those placed under his charge, and that he
had no right to use his estate merely for his own enriching
or aggrandizement. One who did so, he held for an
unfaithful servant, who, would be called to a strict account
whenever his Lord should return, and who could expect
nothing else for his reward than outer darkness and
gnashing of teeth.

I have seen something of great landowners since that

day, and I fear this idea of duty is very far from common
among them. Certainly I have never known one, unless it is
my husband, who fulfilled it as my father did. He was not
always dictating or patronizing. He did not regard his
tenants and workpeople either as little children or as dumb
beasts, but as rational, accountable creatures.

Of course, he met with plenty of hindrance and

opposition. The Norman is a slow thinker, and very
conservative. That "our fathers did so" is reason enough for
them to do so also, and they are as full of prejudice and
superstition as any people in France, except perhaps their
neighbors of Brittany. But they are good honest folk, sober
for the most part, except on some special occasions, very
industrious, and extremely domestic and frugal in their
habits. Their houses are generally comfortable, according to
French ideas, and they often have a great deal of wealth
laid by in the shape of fine linen, gold ornaments, and
furniture. Oh, how I should like to see the inside of a
Norman farm-house once more! Those very cakes of
sarrasin, which I used to hate, would taste like ambrosia.
But I am wandering again, in the fashion of old people.

My father, holding these ideas, did not feel at liberty to

seek safety himself and leave his poor people as sheep
without a shepherd. He would gladly have sent my mother
and myself to a place of safety, but my mother would not
hear of leaving him, nor did they see their way clear to part
with me. So we remained together till I was fourteen years
old. My mother instructed me in all sorts of womanly
accomplishments, and from Mrs. Grace, I learned to do
wonderful feats of needlework, especially in darning, cut
work, and satin stitch, which in my turn, I taught to Lucille,
with my mother's full approbation, for she said I learned in
teaching. And besides, in these days of flight and exile, it
behoved every one to practise those arts by which they
might earn their bread in a strange land.

These lessons were sometimes very pleasant to both of

us; at others they were disturbed by that spirit of jealousy
which had always been Lucille's bane, and which, as she did
not strive to conquer it, increased upon her. She was always
vexed that I should do anything which she could not, and if
she could not almost directly equal or excel the pattern I set
before her, she would abandon the work in disgust,
sometimes with expressions of contempt, sometimes with
an outburst of temper which made me fairly afraid of her for
the time.

But we always made up our quarrels again, for she was

really anxious to learn, and besides that I think she truly
loved me at that time. Poor Lucille! David I seldom saw. He
had gone, with the full approbation of his father and mine,
to learn the trade of a ship-carpenter at Dieppe, where he
soon distinguished himself by his skill. His holidays, which
were few and far between, he always spent at home, and
he never came without bringing presents to his family, and
some little product of his skill and ingenuity—a reel, a little
casket inlaid with ivory or precious woods, or a small frame
for my embroidery. I have one or two of these things still.

My own temptations did not lie toward jealousy, which

was one reason perhaps that I had so much patience with
Lucille; for I have observed that people usually have the
least toleration for the faults most resembling their own. I
was always, from my earliest years, a dreamy, imaginative
child. I heard but little of the world—that world in which my
uncle and aunt lived at court. But now and then I got a
peep at it through the medium of the plays and tales which
my other uncle would persist in sending—for I am sorry to
say that I had more than once repeated the offence of
stealing and studying some of these books—and this same
world had great charms for me.

I had been less with my mother than usual for some

months, for she and my father had many private
consultations from which I was excluded. I used to take my
work to the top of the old tower or out in the orchard, and
while my fingers were busy with my stocking or my pattern,
my fancy was making me a grand demoiselle, and leading
me to balls and gardens and all the scenes of the English
court.

Of the English court, I say, for my wildest dreams at

that time never led me to the court of Louis XIV. That was
too closely associated with the dangers and inconveniences
of our condition for me to think of it with anything but
horror. Thus I spent many hours worse than unprofitably.
Then my conscience would be aroused by some Bible
reading with my mother or some tale of suffering heroism
from my father, and I would cast aside my dreams and
return to those religious duties which at other times were
utterly distasteful to me. In short, I was double-minded,
and as such was unstable in all my ways.
 CHAPTER IV.
TRUST AND DISTRUST.

"YOU are to have a holiday to-day, Mrs. Vevette," was

Grace's announcement to me one fine morning somewhere
toward the end of September. "Your mother has one of her
bad headaches."

"Oh, how sorry I am!" I exclaimed, thinking not of the

holiday but of the headache. "Is it very bad, Mrs. Grace?"

"Very bad indeed," returned the lady-in-waiting,

solemnly shaking her head; "I have seldom seen her worse.
I have been up with her half the night. You must be very
quiet, my dear, and not rush up and down-stairs, or drop
your books, or—"

"May I go up to the farm and see Mother Jeanne?" I

asked, breaking in upon the catalogue of what Grace called
my "headlong ways." "I want to teach Lucille that new lace-
stitch, and I dare say Jeanne won't mind if I do make a little
noise," I added, with some resentment.

Not, of course, that I wished to disturb my mother, or

indeed any one else, but I was a little tired of this same