It was in the month of December; the church clock had just struck five, and the morning was very dark, when one of the servants of the inn came to inform Madame de Vesac, and her daughter Cecilia, that the carriage was ready, and that they could continue their journey. They had left Paris early on the previous day, for the purpose of visiting the estate of Madame de Vesac, to which she had been called by urgent business. The distance was a hundred and fifty leagues, and they had travelled by post; they had been on the road till ten o'clock on the previous evening, and were now about to resume their journey after having taken a few hours' repose. Madame de Vesac called her daughter; Cecilia, terribly sleepy, half opened her eyes, then let her head fall back again upon her pillow. Her mother was obliged to call a second, and even a third time, and she awoke up at last, exclaiming "Oh dear! dear! how disagreeable it is to get up at five o'clock in the morning at this time of year!" She would have said, had she dared, "Oh dear! what a misfortune!" for every contradiction or suffering, however slight, always assumed, with Cecilia, the character of a misfortune. At every little accident that befel her, she fancied that no one had ever suffered so much as she did, and really believed that cold, hunger, thirst, and sleepiness, were with her quite different matters from what they were with other people. When laughed at for the disproportionate annoyance which the petty inconveniences of life occasioned her, she would say "Oh! you do not feel as I feel!" and, indeed, believed so.

Nevertheless, as Cecilia possessed a generous disposition, an elevated mind, a lively imagination, and a due share of pride, she had a passionate admiration for high and noble actions, and even a great desire to imitate them, sometimes saying that she would give everything in the world for an opportunity of becoming a heroine. "Provided," her mother would add with a smile, "that your acts of heroism never exposed you to the chance of being scratched by a thorn, or to the necessity of walking a few steps in uneasy shoes." And then Cecilia, a little vexed, would maintain that such things as these had nothing whatever to do with heroism.

Madame de Vesac had not been able to bring her maid with her, as she was ill at the time they left home. This rendered their arrivals at the inns, and especially their departures, more disagreeable, as they were themselves obliged to pack and unpack their luggage, and attend to a variety of troublesome details. Madame de Vesac spared her daughter these inconveniences as far as possible. On the present occasion, she had allowed her to sleep until the last moment, and when Cecilia awoke, almost everything was ready for their journey. Still it was necessary to arrange and pack up her night-things, and see that nothing was forgotten; and the cold and the darkness had so chilled her courage, that nothing but shame prevented her from shedding tears at every effort she made, and every step she took. And yet she was thirteen years old; but at no age do people cease to be children, if they allow themselves to attach importance to every whim that may cross their minds, or to every trifling inconvenience which they may have to bear. Cecilia had much more trouble, and was much longer about what she had to do than would have been necessary had she set courageously to work. "Make haste," repeated her mother every moment, and Cecilia made haste, but with the air of one who had no heart for what she was about. To have given herself this, nothing was required but a slight effort, a slight exertion of her reason: she need only have said, "What I have to do at present is so far from being beyond my powers, as I try to persuade myself, that if I felt the least wish to do it I should find no difficulty in it." But Cecilia did not choose to desire what would have been so beneficial to her, and, for the sake of saving herself a single mental effort, sufficient to conquer her repugnance and idleness, she allowed herself to relapse into them every moment, and submitted to the continued exertions demanded by every action and movement.

At last, all was ready; Madame de Vesac and her daughter entered their carriage and departed. Cecilia's griefs, however, being still undiminished, the night was so dark, and so cold, and she had so little courage to resist the feeling of sadness which it induced. She shivered in her wadded dress, and beneath her two or three shawls; her fur shoes did not prevent her from complaining of the deadly coldness of her feet, nor could she sufficiently cover her hands with her dress, though already encased in fur gloves. At length, in spite of her distress, she fell asleep, and slept quietly until it was broad daylight. When she awoke, the sun had already dissipated the thick fog of the morning. It shone brilliantly over the country covered with snow, and was even felt through the windows of the carriage. Everything seemed to announce a fine winter's day, and her heart began to revive. They stopped for breakfast, and took it in a comfortable warm room, and this completely restored her energy and cheerfulness. Her mother then began to jest about the despair she had manifested a few hours before. "I see," she said, "that for the acts of heroism to which you purpose to devote yourself, you will be careful to select the months of July and August, for cold is quite adverse to your virtue."

"But mamma," said Cecilia, "how can you expect one to stir, when one's fingers are benumbed with cold?"

"Since, though complaining the whole time, you did nevertheless manage to do so, I presume the thing was possible, but I perceive, at the same time, that such an effort must have something in it surpassing the highest courage, and were it not for the terrible fatality which has subjected you to so severe a trial, I should have been extremely careful not to have required anything of the kind from you."

"However, it is quite certain, mamma, that one might choose some better time for travelling than the month of December."

"Not if it happened to be in that month that one had business to attend to which required travelling. You will one day learn, my child, that there are things more impossible than enduring the cold, or even than moving one's fingers when they are benumbed. You remember what CÆsar said: It is necessary that I should go, and it is not necessary that I should live.

"One might very well expose one's life, on occasions of importance, and yet not be able to do impossibilities, however important they might be."

"Such as putting in a pin or tying a shoe when one is cold?"

"I do not mean that," replied Cecilia, a little out of humour, "and besides you will allow, mamma, that our affairs are not of such importance as those of CÆsar."

"How do you know that? the importance of things is relative; I am not called upon to overturn the world; such a thing would give me no pleasure, but I have to settle a matter to which your father attaches great importance, and to show myself worthy of the confidence he reposed in me, when, on leaving for the army he placed all his affairs in my hands; in fine, it is necessary for me that he should be pleased with me, for on this depends the happiness of my life; and on your part, it is necessary that you should prove yourself able to support with courage unavoidable inconveniences. All these things are important, and yet," added Madame de Vesac, smiling, "I do not think we run any risk of dying on account of them."

"Oh, no! mamma," said Cecilia, smiling too, "but I assure you that even CÆsar would have found it very cold this morning."

"I have not the least doubt of it; but CÆsar was such a great man! Do you know, Cecilia, that if we were to examine with care, I feel sure that among his great actions we should find many which must have benumbed his feet and hands."

"In that case," said Cecilia, somewhat drily, "he must have been very fortunate if he could find matters to attend to which would prevent his thinking of the cold, for it is certainly very disagreeable."

"Undoubtedly," replied Madame de Vesac, carelessly; "but there are some persons who can manage to think of every thing. I am persuaded, for instance, that had you been in ClÆlia's place, when, flying from the camp of Porsenna, she crossed the Tiber on horseback, you would have found it excessively disagreeable, to have been obliged to wet your feet."

"Well, mamma," said Cecilia with animation, "you ought to be delighted at that, since you are continually telling me that instead of wishing to be a heroine, it is quite enough to attend to one's duties merely."

"Certainly; but I who make no pretensions to heroism, find that mere duty is sometimes quite sufficient to employ all our powers, and that it is impossible that we can always do what simple duty requires, unless we have learned to bear cold, fatigue, and even the misfortune of having to get up at five o'clock in the morning in the month of December."

"It is nevertheless certain, mamma, that there are things which it is quite impossible to do, such as walking when one is tired."

"Or moving one's fingers when they are cold, for instance. Undoubtedly there are things which are impossible to every one, but the difference I find between CÆsar and you is, that in his case the impossibility came much later, and that at the degree of fatigue at which you would say I cannot walk, he would have said I must walk, and would have found strength to proceed. You are not aware how much strength people possess when they really wish to make use of it."

"I assure you, mamma," replied Cecilia, with some slight degree of temper, "that when I say I cannot do a thing I really cannot."

"I am sure of that, but I should like to know whence arises the impossibility. Pray think of this at the first opportunity. It is necessary that I should know whether you are really weaker than other people."

Cecilia made no reply; she was perfectly persuaded that no one understood her sufferings, and had never asked herself whether she were not made like other people, and consequently able to endure what they endured. The day passed well enough, and when night came she slept.

She was sleeping soundly, when a violent jerk suddenly aroused her. "Gracious! what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "We are upset," said Madame de Vesac; and in fact at that moment, the carriage, which had passed over a large stone, came to the ground with a violent shock, and turned completely over on one side. Cecilia screamed, and fell upon her mother. "Do not be frightened," said Madame de Vesac, who, notwithstanding the inconvenience of her position, thought only of her daughter. The carriage was stopped, and the postilion dismounted, and came to their assistance. All this time Cecilia did not cease screaming. "Where are you hurt?" asked her mother, trembling lest she should be severely wounded. "Everywhere," replied Cecilia, unconscious of what she said, the fright had so bewildered her. When the postilion opened the door which happened to be uppermost, Cecilia knew not what to do to extricate herself from her position. "Get up," said the postilion.

"Get up," repeated her mother, but Cecilia replied, "I cannot," without knowing whether she could or not, for she had not even tried. At last the postilion, who was active and strong, raising her up, lifted her out of the carriage, and thus freed her mother from a weight which almost overpowered her and made her feel ready to faint. Then Madame de Vesac, in her turn, getting out with the assistance of the postilion, hastened to her daughter, whom she was delighted to find standing up, although motionless, and not knowing whether she had a limb of which she could make use. In a little while, being somewhat reassured by her mother's voice, Cecilia began to answer the repeated questions put to her to ascertain where she was hurt. Both her knees were bruised, and her elbow grazed: she had a slight swelling on the head, a bonnet box had pressed her side, and her foot, which happened to be under the seat of the carriage, was a little swelled. "I am so bruised all over that I cannot move," she said, moving, however, the whole time in every direction to feel where she was hurt. She asked her mother whether she, too, were not hurt. "I think," replied Madame de Vesac, "I have sprained my wrist, for it is very painful, and I cannot use my hand."

"Just like my foot," replied Cecilia, and saying so, she began to walk. Madame de Vesac smiled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hand in her shawl, the ends of which she tied round her so as to support her wrist, and then busied herself with what was to be done. Recovered from the first shock of their fall, and congratulating themselves on having escaped so well, they nevertheless found themselves placed in a very unpleasant predicament. Comtois, the only servant who had accompanied them, had gone on before, as a courier, to prepare the horses. The postilion, unable by himself to raise the carriage, was obliged to go for assistance to the post-house, from which they were still at a considerable distance. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia, therefore, as they could not follow him since he went on horseback, nor reach the post-house alone, as they were ignorant of the way, were obliged to remain on the road until his return. The night was extremely dark, and the cold, without being very intense, was sharp and disagreeable. A sleet was falling, which, as it reached the ground, was converted into ice. The carriage, completely overturned, afforded no shelter, and to the other inconveniences of their position, was added that of being quite alone at ten o'clock at night upon the high road. Madame de Vesac, however courageous, was not without uneasiness, but she knew it was useless to give way to it; and when Cecilia, a little terrified, asked her if they were to remain alone, "You see we must," she replied, in a tranquil voice, which gave her daughter to understand, that though she was aware of the inconvenience of the arrangement, she nevertheless submitted to it with calmness, because it was necessary. Cecilia herself saw this necessity so plainly that she made no reply; but when after unharnessing the horses, and securing two of them to a tree, the postilion mounted the third to go and seek assistance; when she saw him depart, when the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and fainter at last ceased to fall upon her ear, then her heart shrank with terror, a cold perspiration covered her limbs, and she drew close to her mother. Madame de Vesac perceived her alarm, but made no remark, well knowing that nothing so much increases terror as speaking of it. She merely endeavoured to restore her confidence a little, by giving her, on her own part, an example of courage and tranquillity.

The wind became more violent, the sleet increased, and a heavy fall of snow began to mingle with it: Madame De Vesac and her daughter went over to the side where the carriage offered some defence against the rain and snow which were beating into their faces; but this shelter did not long suffice, the gusts of wind became so violent, that Cecilia was twice on the point of losing her hat, notwithstanding the ribbons by which it was confined. It was with difficulty that they kept their shawls around them; the snow assailed them on all sides, melting upon them, and penetrating their clothes; and they were benumbed by a damp coldness, from which their inability to move left them no means of escape. Cecilia did not think of complaining, for no one could have assisted her; besides, she could not doubt that her mother suffered as much as herself, and complaints are seldom made except to excite the pity of those who seem better off than we are, and who, therefore, are able to think of us rather than of themselves. Cecilia now discovered how erroneous it is to suppose that any comfort is to be derived from complaining: perhaps even she suffered less from her position, than she would have done had she lamented it; but she did not make this reflection, and it was natural that the necessity of the case should render her more courageous.

Madame de Vesac, however, fearing lest her daughter should become ill, from the cold and damp which had penetrated her clothes, proposed to her to seek shelter in a wood which extended on both sides of the road, and the trees of which, though divested of their leaves, were at least sufficiently close to break the violence of the wind and snow; but this wood was the principal object of Cecilia's dread. Terrified at the proposition, she could only utter the words, "Oh! mamma, to go into the wood!"

"Just as you like, my child," said Madame de Vesac, "but," she added, smiling, "who do you think would come after us in such weather as this? You may be quite sure there is nobody abroad but ourselves."

Cecilia made no reply, her thoughts terrified her to such a degree that she dared not utter them, and had she pronounced the word robbers, it would have seemed to her that she was calling them; but at that moment there came a gust so violent, that the carriage appeared shaken by it; one of the blinds which happened to be down, was so violently agitated that the cords snapped, and being no longer upheld it was lifted by the wind, and struck Cecilia on the head. Seized with terror she sprang from her place; the storm continued, she was unable to resist it, yet dared not return to the carriage. Completely bewildered by the wind, she neither knew where she was, nor what she did: and her mother taking her by the arm led her into the wood, where she recovered a little of her self-possession. Here the wind was much less violent, and as always happens when we look at things closely, Cecilia having entered the wood felt much less terrified, than while merely considering it from the road. A copse where there happened to be a few trees, which still retained their leaves, although it was the month of December, had protected a few feet of ground from the snow, and afforded the travellers a shelter from the wet. The double trunk of a tree furnished them with a support, and they were at least in a situation where they could await without excessive discomfort the assistance which could not be far distant, when all at once Cecilia, whose eyes were turned towards the copse, probably seeing the branches agitated by the wind, fancied she perceived a figure moving and advancing towards them. Completely bewildered by fright she seized her mother's arm, and without saying a word dragged her on, as quickly as she was able, through the bushes, plunging deeper into the wood to avoid the terrible objects by which she believed herself pursued. Her mother, astonished, after having followed her for a few steps endeavoured to stop her. "Where are you going?" she said. "What is the matter?" But Cecilia, whose terror was only increased by the sound of her mother's voice, because she was afraid of its having been heard, continued to drag her along with an extraordinary degree of strength, and her mother, who would not leave her, was obliged to follow. At length, by dint of talking she recalled her to herself; she stopped a moment and said in a low tremulous voice, "Did you see him?"—"Who?" demanded Madame de Vesac.—"Among the trees ... a man...." "I have seen no one, you were mistaken, I assure you."—"Oh! I still hear him...." And she was once more on the point of starting off, but her mother restrained her. "My dear Cecilia," she said, greatly distressed at her condition; "my dear child, be reasonable, take courage; there is no one there, I assure you there is nothing to fear; confide in me who would not lead you into danger, and whose judgment is calmer than yours." A little restored by her mother's words, and the affectionate tone in which they were uttered, Cecilia, ashamed of her fears, stopped, and restored her mother's arm, which she still held, to its former position under her shawl.—"Let us retrace our steps," said Madame de Vesac, "lest we lose our way." Cecilia did not dare to say anything, but she shuddered at the idea of again passing so near the copse. At this moment they heard some one call them, and recognized the voice of Comtois. Cecilia breathed more freely, and hastened to reply; but Comtois had entered the wood at another part, and they stood still to discover whence the voice proceeded.

"It is in that direction, mamma," said Cecilia, who, delighted at the thought of avoiding the copse, pointed to a road a little more to the right than the one they were on the point of taking. Madame de Vesac listened again, and the voice which still continued to call and answer, seeming, in fact, to proceed from the right, she took the direction indicated by Cecilia, and calling from time to time to Comtois, they walked on towards the spot whence the sound was still heard to proceed, but it seemed sometimes to approach, and sometimes to recede, for it appeared that Comtois altered his course according to the place where he thought they must be, and they themselves took first one direction and then another, without being quite sure which was the right. This state of uncertainty lasted for some minutes, but at length the voice sensibly approached, and they heard steps through the trees. "Is that you, Comtois?" It was he, and Cecilia in a transport of joy was ready to throw her arms round his neck; she forgot the cold, the sleet, and the wind; once freed from her former terror she now thought all her troubles were at an end. Comtois informed them that he had procured assistance, and that at that moment the men were engaged in raising the carriage, to which he was going to conduct them. But the question now was how to find the way, for, intent only on reaching each other, neither Comtois nor Madame de Vesac had thought of observing their route. They stopped to listen for some indication from the people at the carriage, but the wind bore the sounds another way, or when they did reach them, they were so faint and uncertain, that they concluded they must have advanced further into the wood than they had supposed. However, they directed their course towards the side on which they concluded the high road lay, listening every moment to discover whether the sounds increased in strength; sometimes Cecilia fancied she heard voices, and even maintained that she could distinguish that of the postilion: at other times hearing nothing she became uneasy, but the joy of having found Comtois sustained her courage. At length she exclaimed, "Mamma, I see an opening through the trees; that must be the road." Madame de Vesac looked, and perceived, indeed, a spot where the trees appeared to separate, but she did not think it was the high road, and was astonished at not hearing any noise. Cecilia made her hasten her steps, repeating, as she hurried her on, "There's the road, there's the road!" Her mother cautioned her not to rejoice too soon; but she did not listen to her, and was the first to reach a spot, open indeed, but so surrounded by the wood on all sides, that it afforded no means of egress, except by a path almost parallel to the one they had just left. She stood petrified.

"This is not the road," said Madame de Vesac.

"Indeed," said Comtois, "I don't know where we are now."

"What will become of us?" inquired Cecilia in a timid and anxious voice, but without those exclamations so habitual to her, for in the present moment of real fear and trouble her thoughts were more occupied with the situation itself, than with the desire of vividly displaying what she felt.

"We must endeavour to get out of this place," replied Madame de Vesac. "The road cannot be far off; but we must take a different direction from the one we have come by."

They once more stopped to listen and consult together; but they could hear nothing whatever; and as to the path they were to take, there was no choice except between the one by which they had come and another which led in the same direction. Their consultation, therefore, could not be of long duration. The second path seemed much better than the one they had left, it was tolerably wide, and pretty well beaten; and they hence concluded that it must necessarily lead to some frequented place. They therefore determined to follow it, and recommenced their journey with renewed courage; but Cecilia perceived that her mother arranged in a different manner the end of the shawl, with which she had contrived to support her arm, and that she occasionally carried her other hand to it; and concluding from this that she must suffer increased pain, she asked her about it.

"We must not think of this now," said Madame de Vesac; so that Cecilia was afraid to complain too much of her foot, which was beginning to give her pain. She only said, "My foot is rather painful." She had already endured sufficient real trouble during the night, to have learned to be silent about inconveniences not worth complaining of.

The snow fell with less violence, and the wind was somewhat abated, so that in the wood the cold was quite bearable. Madame de Vesac and her daughter, one on each side of Comtois, and supported by his arm, walked without much difficulty in a path tolerably smooth, and which the recently fallen snow prevented from being very slippery. Reanimated by this momentary relief, they pursued this part of their journey with tolerable cheerfulness, Madame de Vesac averring even that her arm was less painful since the cold had diminished, and Cecilia consoling herself with the hopes of soon being able to rest her foot in the carriage. Comtois from time to time raised his voice and called to the people at the carriage; but no one answered, and not a sound reached their ears. Again the travellers began to feel uneasy at thus continually advancing without any assurance that they were not going further away from the spot they wished to reach. However, proceed they must, for there was no reason to suppose that, in retracing their steps, they would be able to find any better way. At last they came to a point where the path was crossed by another precisely similar. They were now in the utmost perplexity, for there was no inducement for choosing one of the three paths rather than another, except perhaps that as the one they had come by did not seem to have brought them any nearer the road, it might be reasonable to choose between the other two. But on which of them were they to fix?

Comtois attempted to climb a rather tall tree which happened to be at the entrance of one of the paths, hoping to be able to see from it the road and the carriage; but, not to mention that his boots did not allow him to climb with much agility, it happened that the first branch he clung to was decayed and broke, and he fell, fortunately without being much hurt; but Madame de Vesac, as well as Cecilia, whose own fall had rendered her excessively timid, prevented him from making any further attempt, by representing the frightful situation they would all be in if any accident befell him. There was no alternative, therefore, but to proceed, and let chance direct their course. They thought they remembered that in diverging from the road they had several times turned a little to the left; they consequently supposed that in returning they must take the contrary direction. On this, therefore, they fixed, not without much regret, however, at being unable to ascertain whither the opposite path led; but it was not a time for unavailing regrets, and they therefore made up their minds to trust that they had selected the best.

Nevertheless the spirits of the travellers began again to sink, Cecilia's foot was considerably swelled, and fatigue had greatly added to the pain of Madame de Vesac's arm, although her anxiety kept her in a state of agitation which prevented her feeling it as much as she would have done in calmer moments. Still this very anxiety was itself a serious evil: there was no certainty of their finding their way; and if chance did not guide them better than it had done thus far, she calculated with terror the number of hours they must pass in the wood, and the fatigues and sufferings they must endure whilst waiting for the light.

Cecilia, still more depressed, said nothing, and began to cease thinking: fatigue and sadness absorbed all her faculties.

The path they had taken terminated in a kind of cross-way, from which branched off several narrower paths. They fixed upon what appeared the widest and best; but it soon contracted to such a degree that Madame de Vesac and her daughter were obliged to resign the arm of Comtois, and allow him to walk in front and clear the way a little for them. The density of the wood at this part had kept the ground moist, and this moisture was now converted into ice, while the snow had been prevented from falling sufficiently to cover the path. They walked one behind the other, slipping at every step, and only able to keep themselves from falling by laying hold of the trees. Every moment their feet struck against the roots, or were caught in the trailing branches; and Cecilia, constantly on the point of falling, soon became unable to restrain her sobs. At last, at a very slippery part, she lost her footing, and fell upon her knees. A bramble, which happened to be across the path, caught in her clothes; and when she had succeeded in extricating her dress from it, it became entangled in her shawl, then got fastened to her gloves, and deprived her of the use of her hands. She tried to rise, but no sooner had she put her foot upon the ground than she slipped and again fell. Worn out as she already was, this slight accident quite exhausted her courage. Madame de Vesac turned round to give her her hand; but being near falling herself, she was obliged to catch hold of a tree: she could only pity and endeavour to encourage her daughter.

"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I cannot go on; it is impossible."

"My poor child," said Madame de Vesac, "are you quite sure it is impossible? Think seriously of it; this is not a trial to be made for pleasure merely, such as I proposed to you a short time since, but an exertion of courage absolutely indispensable. Only consider, my dear Cecilia," she added, in the most tender and caressing tone, "we have nothing but our courage to extricate us from these difficulties; but with courage I think we have still sufficient strength left to enable us to go through a great deal. Would it not then be better to call it forth than weakly to yield to our distress?"

Thus saying, she assisted with her foot to extricate her from the bramble, while supporting her with her knees. Cecilia made no reply, but, raising herself up, continued her journey, and, feeling the truth of her mother's words, she exerted all her strength to avoid future complaints. Still she wept in silence; a weakness pardonable indeed, but one, nevertheless, which added to her sufferings, as weakness ever does.

They at last reached the end of this difficult route, and once more found themselves at an opening in the wood, where several paths terminated, but without being any better able to decide which they were to take. Stopping for a moment to consider, they thought they heard at no great distance a faint sound, which was not that of the wind. They listened; "Good heavens!" exclaimed Cecilia, "I think I hear some one crying;" and she shuddered as she spoke.

They listened again, and fancied they could distinguish the voice of a child. At length, after looking in every direction, favoured by the light of the moon, which was beginning to disperse the clouds, they perceived in a corner, a little within the opening, a figure standing motionless, and leaning against a tree. Cecilia was frightened, and clung tightly to the arm of Comtois.

"Let us see what it is," said Madame de Vesac, the more anxiously, as she still heard the sounds.

On a nearer approach, they discovered that what they had seen was a poor woman, leaning motionless against a tree, and who had by her side a little girl about eight years old. The poor creature held something in her arms, which, as they came closer, they found to be an infant of about two months old, motionless like the mother. It seemed benumbed with cold; and its mother, without making any movement, or uttering a word, stood with her head bent over it, as if to warm it. One could scarcely say whether they were dead or alive. The voice which had been heard proceeded from the little girl, who, also motionless by her mother's side, continued crying in a low tone. At this moment, the moon rendered them distinctly visible. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia approached quite close to the woman, but she did not change her position. They looked at each other and trembled, for they feared that both mother and infant were dead. At last, Madame de Vesac said to her, "My good woman, what are you doing here?" She made no answer.

The little girl, who, on perceiving them, began to cry and sob more violently, pulled her by the skirt, exclaiming, "Mother! mother! some ladies!"

The poor woman raised her head, and pointed by her looks to her child, whose face she again covered with her own; they had, however, time enough to discern the face of the infant, which was pale and still as death. Madame de Vesac wished to ascertain if it yet lived, but knew not how to ask the question. At last she said in a low tone, at the same time laying her hand gently upon him, "He is very cold." "I cannot get him warm again," said the mother, in a still fainter tone, at the same time pressing him more closely to her bosom, as if anxious to make a new effort to impart her warmth to him. "Is he dead?" asked Comtois. The only reply to these terrible words were cries of despair, as the unfortunate creature pressed her infant more firmly to her heart. Madame de Vesac found means of taking its hand: it was cold as ice; but she felt its pulse, and perceiving it beat, she said with animation, "No! most assuredly he is not dead; I feel his pulse beat."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed the poor woman, with a stifled sigh, at the same time raising towards Madame de Vesac eyes beaming with gratitude, and already beginning to be suffused with tears. But she again immediately turned them upon her child, whom she passionately kissed.

"Let us take him," said Madame de Vesac; "we are better able to warm him than you are."

"Give him to me. I will put him under my great coat," said Comtois, as he unfastened his thick, warm travelling coat. The poor woman hesitated. "Give him to me," he continued. "I have children of my own. I know how to manage them."

"Let him take the child," said Madame de Vesac; and the unhappy mother placed the infant in his arms, wrapping the coat round him. In order to make room for him, Comtois removed a bottle from one of the inside pockets.

"Stop!" said he; "this won't hurt him." It was a bottle of brandy; he opened it, and poured a few drops into the mouth of the child, who swallowed it.

"He swallows!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and the child began to breathe more freely, and to move its little arms.

"I thought so!" said Comtois; "this would bring the dead to life. It would do you no harm either, to take a little, my good woman."

The poor creature replied that she did not want anything; but Madame de Vesac persuaded her to take a little to warm her. Then the little girl, who since the arrival of Madame de Vesac had ceased crying, watching all that passed around her, again began to sob, in a low tone, but sufficiently loud to make herself heard. Cecilia was the first to observe her, and began to caress her, in order to quiet her, but the child still continued crying, with her eyes directed to the bottle. Cecilia asked if a little might not also be given to her, and Comtois declared that it would do her no harm. "Yes," said Madame de Vesac, "if she only takes a few drops; but if you give her the bottle, she will drink too much." Meanwhile the child still cried and watched the bottle, and her manner was so quiet and gentle, that the heart of Cecilia was vividly touched. At last, by an effort of which she could not have believed herself capable, Cecilia took off her glove, and told the child that she should drink out of her hand; but when the little girl had done so, she hid her hand again, observing that it was very cold; but when the child rejected the brandy, saying it burned her mouth, Cecilia observed to her that it was not worth while to have made her take off her glove. She was on the point of putting it on again, when the mother said that a bit of bread would have been much better for her, as she had eaten nothing since noon. At this the child began to cry more bitterly.

"Oh, dear!" said Cecilia, "if I had but the bun I bought this morning, and did not eat."

"Where is it?" asked her mother.

"In the carriage."

"I thought I told you to put it in your bag."

"Yes, but my bag...." She interrupted herself, and uttered a cry of joy. She had not observed that her bag had remained attached to her arm. She felt the strings, undid them, opened it, and found the bun. It was a little crushed, indeed, by her fall, but the pieces were good. She gave one of them to the mother, who, without saying a word, and thinking herself unobserved, put it into her pocket. Cecilia again felt in the bag, and taking off her other glove, asked whether, if she crumbled a little of the soft part in her hand, they could not make the infant take some of it.

"What he wants," said Madame de Vesac, "is his mother's milk; but even supposing she has any for him, he is not at present sufficiently strong to take it; we must endeavour to reach some inhabited place as speedily as possible, where we may be able to give him the attention he requires."

Then the poor woman, who, after a moment of intense joy, felt all her fears and grief revive, said weeping, "If he only lives until we reach Chambouri, I have my mother there, and she is very skilful in the care of children."

"Where is Chambouri?" inquired Madame de Vesac.

"It is a short league from here," replied the poor woman.

"It is the post town," added Comtois. "Do you know the way to it?"

"Do I know the way to it?" said the woman. "I was born there."

"Why did you not go there instead of remaining against that tree?"

"I fell three times upon the ice; the third time my poor baby gave a scream, and then was silent. At first I thought I had killed him; and then I thought if I fell again, I should be sure to kill him; besides, a moment after, finding he did not move, I believed him dead, and had no heart for anything."

"But now will you conduct us to Chambouri?"

"Certainly, provided we can get there in time," and the poor woman again began to weep.

"Yes, yes, we shall arrive in time;" said Madame de Vesac; "Comtois will carry the infant in one arm, and give the other to Cecilia. You and I," she added, addressing the mother, "will try to keep each other up."

They proceeded in accordance with this arrangement, Cecilia giving her hand to the little girl, and the poor mother walking by the side of her baby, every moment putting her hand upon its head, which was not covered by Comtois' coat, and redoubling her tears each time she felt it cold. Madame de Vesac, perceiving this, stopped to untie a small shawl, which she wore underneath her large one, and gave it to cover the head of the infant.

"It is indeed very cold," said Cecilia, who was beginning to think of her own troubles, and who found that by giving her hand to the little girl, she herself became very cold, from being unable to cover it with her shawl.

"How long have you been exposed to this cold?" inquired Madame de Vesac of the poor woman.

"We have not entered a house since noon," she replied. "I hoped to have reached Chambouri early this evening, but the bad weather and the bad roads have delayed us; and had it not been for you, my good lady, we must have passed the night in the wood."

"But would you have been able to endure the cold?" demanded Madame de Vesac.

"I don't know whether my poor little one would have survived it," she replied, with increased emotion, and then began to enumerate his perfections, as if she had already lost him. "He knew me," she said, weeping; "even this very morning he looked at me and smiled; the beautiful sunshine delighted him, and he raised his little arms, as if he wanted to jump; and then, after the sun had gone down, when, for the last time, I attempted to nurse him, he looked up at me, and tried to smile." At these words her tears again flowed with redoubled force.

"He will look at you; he will smile again," said Madame de Vesac.

"Oh!" continued the unhappy mother, "he has suffered so much; he looked at me, as if for help;" and in calling to mind the sad looks of her child, she could not restrain her sobs. Then Cecilia again, forgetful of her own troubles, withdrew her hand from Comtois' arm, and passing it under that part of his coat which enveloped the child, said to the mother, "Oh! he is very warm: feel him, he moves his little arms; I am sure he is comfortable." "Yes, he does move his arms, I can tell you," said Comtois; "see, he has pulled off the handkerchief which he had on his head;" and Cecilia let go the hand of the little girl to re-arrange the handkerchief. The poor mother knew not how to express her joy and gratitude; but the little girl, who had remained a short distance behind them, because Cecilia no longer held her hand, began to cry. "Come along," then, said her mother; but the poor little thing replied, "I cannot."

Cecilia went to her, and again took her hand, saying, "You must try to come along, my dear."

"How long have you been on foot?" inquired Madame de Vesac.

"Since noon," replied the poor woman. "I had no more money to pay for lodgings; we had eaten all the provisions I had brought for the journey, and I wanted to reach Chambouri."

"And has the child been walking all that time?"

"Yes, the whole time."

"Cecilia is right, my dear," said Madame de Vesac, addressing the little girl. "You must try to walk."

"If Comtois were not carrying the baby," said Cecilia, "I would beg him to take her up."

"Oh! I have another arm," said Comtois; "but then I could not support you, Miss Cecilia."

"Never mind me," said Cecilia. "I am much better able to walk without support, than this poor little thing is to continue the journey on foot."

Comtois then stooped down, and, seating the child upon his arm, raised her from the ground, saying, "You must take hold of my collar with both your hands;" to which the child replied, "I cannot."

"Why not?" demanded Cecilia. But on taking her hands to show her how she must hold the collar, she perceived that they were so cold that the child could not use them. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed, "she freezes me even through my gloves." Then, remembering that she had two pairs on, the outside ones lined with fur, she took them off, and after well rubbing the child's hands, put them on her; but, finding her still unable to hold the collar, she made her put her arms round Comtois' neck. The child, however, still continued to cry. "What is the matter," asked Cecilia; but she received no answer. "It is her poor feet," said her mother. "Her chilblains are broken, and yet she has walked barefoot the whole day; but now that she is no longer walking, she feels the cold more." Cecilia recollected the socks which she wore over her shoes; she took them off, and put them upon the feet of the little girl, who ceased crying. Then, taking the arm of the poor woman, Madame de Vesac having the other, she walked on courageously, complaining neither of the cold nor of the ice, though she found much more difficulty in maintaining her balance now that she was without her socks.

"My dear Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "how much strength we have found since the moment we thought it impossible to go any further!"

"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Cecilia, satisfied with herself, "an occasion like this gives one a great deal of strength."

"No, my child: such occasions merely show us all that we actually possess; and since we do possess it, why not make use of it on all occasions?"

"But they are not all of such importance."

"It is always important to succeed in what we undertake, and to do so as speedily and as completely as possible; we ought therefore to make every effort in our power to ensure success. When we are wanting in resolution, and think we have not sufficient strength on a trifling occasion, there is but one thing to be done, and that is to call up all we should be sure to discover in a case of great emergency."

As she concluded these words they reached the boundary of the wood, and found themselves at the entrance of the village of Chambouri.

"Here it is," exclaimed Cecilia, in a transport of joy.

"Yes!" said the poor woman; "but my mother lives close to the post-house, which is at the other end of the village."

"Oh dear!" cried Cecilia, in a mournful tone.

"Should we not be tempted," inquired Madame de Vesac, "to think it impossible to go any further?"

Cecilia, who was beginning to think so, recollected herself, examined her powers, and inwardly shuddered at the idea of all that she still felt able to endure. Trembling at the thought of being exposed to new trials, she was only re-assured when, after a quarter of an hour's further walking, she had entered the post-house, and was seated by the kitchen fire.

They had persuaded the poor woman to accompany them, to warm herself, and attend to her children, whilst waiting till her mother should be ready to receive them. The infant had fallen asleep in Comtois' arms, and when taken from them, the noise, the people, and the lights awoke him, and he began to cry.

"He cries!" exclaimed the mother, in a transport of joy; and falling on her knees with clasped hands, in front of Madame de Vesac, to whom Comtois had given the child, she repeated, "He cries!" while gazing at him intently, and kissing him. He ceased crying, and, pleased with the warmth of the fire, looked at his mother and smiled. "That is just how he looked at me this morning," she exclaimed, and burst into a flood of tears. They made him take a little milk whilst waiting until his mother was sufficiently rested to nurse him herself, and the pleasure which he manifested in taking it was a fresh subject of joy for the poor woman. Meanwhile Cecilia had taken possession of the little girl; she placed her upon her knees, and warmed her feet and hands, without even complaining that by so doing she was prevented from warming her own. At length the mother of the poor woman, hearing of her daughter's arrival, came for them and took them home, gratefully thanking Madame de Vesac, who would not suffer them to depart until they had a comfortable supper. She ordered her own supper in a private room, and sent for a skilful surgeon, who happened fortunately to be at Chambouri, and who set her arm. In the meantime Comtois had gone in search of the carriage, which he found set to rights, and waiting for them. As he returned with it, a traveller entered the inn, who proved to be Madame de Vesac's man of business. He had come from her estate to meet her, making inquiries for her at every stage on the way, in order to prevent her going farther, as the affair for which she had been summoned was arranged. Cecilia therefore retired to rest, with the satisfaction of knowing that she should not have to continue her journey on the following morning, as Madame de Vesac announced that since she had time she should remain a couple of days at the inn, in order to attend to her arm. The next day they sent for the poor woman, who was full of joy at being able to exhibit her infant, now beginning to regain both strength and colour; nor was she ever weary of looking at him and kissing him. She stated that she had been married at a village some distance from Chambouri, to a mechanic, who had turned out a worthless fellow, and, after wasting all their means, had enlisted a short time before the birth of her infant; and that as soon as she was able to travel, she had set out in order to return to her mother, who had a little property, and with whom she intended to live. Madame de Vesac told her that she should consider herself as godmother to the child, whose life she had been instrumental in saving, and that she took him under her protection. But as he must still remain with his mother, who indeed would not have consented to part with him, she contented herself with giving her some money to assist in their maintenance, and she also permitted Cecilia to beg that the little girl, whose name was Nanette, might be committed to her care.

This proposition was gratefully accepted, and after a few days given to repose, Madame de Vesac set out on her return to Paris, with Cecilia and Nanette. From that moment Cecilia looked upon the child as her own, and so greatly was she delighted with her new possession, that she could speak of nothing else. Already had she disposed of all her old dresses in favour of Nanette. Already had she measured her in every direction, to ascertain whether in a dress stained with ink, and which she was delighted to part with, there would he sufficient to make a dress for Nanette, without employing the piece that was stained. Already had she thought, that by taking from her old black apron the part she had burned at the stove, there would be enough remaining to make an apron for Nanette. Already had she made her take off her cap of quilted cotton, to measure with a string the size of her head, in order to calculate how much cambric and muslin would be wanted to make her some neat little caps, while waiting until the return of the warm weather should enable her to go bare-headed, a habit which Cecilia intended she should acquire, it being so much more healthy for a little girl. Several times already had she said to her, "Nanette, hold yourself up;" but the child, who did not know what was meant by holding herself up, having never heard such an expression, only bent her head a little lower, as she always did when embarrassed. Then Cecilia raised it for her, with a quiet gentleness of manner, mentally repeating, as she did so, that patience is the first duty of one who wishes to bring up a child. Madame de Vesac smiled at her gravity; but counselled her, however, to relax it a little, if she wished to gain the confidence of her pupil.

Cecilia had formed the most extensive projects for the education of her protegÉe. "First of all," she said, "I will teach her to work well; this is absolutely necessary for a girl. I mean her to learn history and geography; perhaps even, if she has talent for them, I may teach her the piano and drawing. I am not sufficiently advanced myself to carry her very far, but I shall be improving every day, and then, when I am married and rich, I will give her masters, for I intend her to be very accomplished:" and Cecilia became more and more excited as she advanced with her projects and her hopes. Her mother listened to her, and smiled. Cecilia, perceiving this, was a little annoyed, and asked whether she were not right in wishing to give Nanette a good education.

"Certainly," replied Madame de Vesac; "that is why I advise you to commence by teaching her to read."

"That is a matter of course; but perhaps she can read already. Nanette, can you read?"

The child looked at her, then bent her head without answering. Cecilia raised her chin with her finger, again repeating, "Can you read?" But Nanette's only answer was to bend a little lower than before, as soon as Cecilia had withdrawn her finger. Cecilia, with a look at her mother, which seemed to say, "What patience one must have with children!" drew from her bag a book, which she had brought to read on her journey, and opening it at the title-page, she placed it before Nanette, and pointing to an A, said, "What is that?" Nanette raised her eyes, glanced askance at the A, and then cast them down again, without saying a word. Cecilia repeated, "What is that?" But Nanette continued silent. "It is an A," said Cecilia, lowering her voice, like one becoming impatient, and anxious to restrain herself. The child looked at her earnestly, as if she would have said, "What does it matter to me if it is an A?" "It is an A," repeated Cecilia; but Nanette only looked at her without answering. Cecilia was beginning to lose patience, but she called to mind the self-control her new duties required from her, and, taking Nanette upon her knees, she began to caress her, saying as she did so, "Why will you not say A?" Nanette did not stir. "Say A," continued Cecilia, "and I will give you this plum." Nanette looked first at the plum and then at Cecilia, and smiled. Cecilia smiled too, and repeated, "Say A." Nanette, still smiling, and with her head bent down, glanced slyly at the plum, and said A in a very low tone. Cecilia kissed her with delight. When the plum was eaten, she pointed to another A, but without being able to elicit any opinion on the matter from Nanette. "Say A," she repeated, in an affectionate manner, and Nanette looked round to see if there was another plum coming. However, whether in gratitude for the one she had already eaten, or from the hope of obtaining another, or from politeness to Cecilia, she once more consented to say A. This was a new joy for Cecilia, who, persuaded that Nanette was now quite perfect in the A, and enchanted at this first triumph in her education, returned with delight to the former A, expecting her to recognize it immediately; but this time it was impossible to obtain a syllable from her. Nanette had never seen a book—did not know what it was, nor what could be its use. She could not understand this fancy of making her say A. She had said it without regarding the form of the letter, and without thinking it was the name of the thing shown to her; and had all the A's in the world been placed before her, she would not have been any the wiser. After many useless efforts, Cecilia, completely discouraged, looked at her mother, with an expression of annoyance, saying, "What shall we do if she will not even learn to read?"

Madame de Vesac represented to her that she was beginning to despair very quickly, that it was quite natural that Nanette, astonished at the novelty of her situation, stunned by the carriage, and timid at finding herself among strangers, should have a difficulty in understanding what was shown her, and that it would be better to wait for a quieter time before commencing her instructions.

Cecilia was a little consoled by these words, and glad, moreover, to have a sufficient reason for deferring lessons of which, for the moment, she was heartily tired. However, considering, in the meantime, that she must endeavour to correct Nanette of whatever faults she might have, she determined that on the following morning, when they would he obliged to start at five o'clock, she would not allow her to complain of being so early awakened, or of the cold; but she had no occasion to enforce her lessons. Nanette, accustomed to suffering, never murmured nor complained of anything; and Cecilia was at a loss to know what to do with a child so gentle and docile as not to need scolding, and so little intelligent that it was difficult to tell what method to adopt for her instruction. However, the desire she felt of setting Nanette an example, and the good opinion she began to entertain of her own sense, now that she found herself intrusted with the education of another, prevented her from even thinking of complaining of the cold, or of the annoyance of being disturbed at five o'clock in the morning. She busied herself in arranging her things, in order to show Nanette how to manage; and Nanette, who would rather have packed and unpacked a dozen parcels than have said A once, endeavoured to obey her, and did not acquit herself badly. Cecilia testified her satisfaction, and they resumed their journey, mutually pleased, and, in order to maintain this good understanding, nothing more was said about the A until their arrival in Paris.

We may easily imagine how often, after her return home, Cecilia related the history of Nanette and the forest, and mentioned her intention of bringing up this little girl. The interest inspired by her narrative, and the importance she seemed to herself to acquire, whenever Nanette was asked for, revived those projects of education which the ill-success of her first attempts had somewhat cooled. Besides, she had felt so much pleasure in commencing Nanette's wardrobe, in trying on a dress which she had made for her in two days, and thought it so delightful to have some one to command and send about her little commissions in the house, that she became daily more attached to this species of property. She wished to have Nanette sleep in her room, that she might be completely under her protection, but this Madame de Vesac would not permit, as she felt it would give rise to a thousand inconveniences, which Cecilia, in her eagerness for present gratification, could not foresee. It was therefore arranged that she should sleep with Madame de Vesac's maid, and go down to Cecilia's room every morning to receive the lessons of her young instructress. Cecilia at first declared that this was not enough, and that if more time was not allowed, it would be impossible for her to teach Nanette all she wished her to learn. Her mother, however, advised her to be content with this as a beginning, promising that, if in a little while, she still wished it, the time should be increased. The day Cecilia tried on Nanette's dress and bonnet, which seemed to delight the child very much, and while still exhibiting the apron she had cut out, she took advantage of the opportunity to tell her that if she wished to gain all these pretty things she must learn to read. Nanette did not very well know what was meant by learning to read, but she had seen Cecilia look into books, and remembered that it was in a book she was made to say A. This recollection was by no means agreeable, but as she was becoming accustomed to obey Cecilia, she consented for once to repeat after her, first A, then B, then C; and at last, all the letters of the alphabet. Cecilia made her repeat them two or three times, showing them to her in the different styles; and greatly pleased at having so easily obtained Nanette's submission, which she had so much difficulty in doing at the commencement, she flattered herself that the most important point was gained, and that her education would now rapidly advance. The same day she put her fingers on the piano, and Nanette was at first delighted with the sounds she produced by striking the keys, but she did not find it quite so amusing to go through the gamut, and repeat after Cecilia a dozen times, ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, ut. However, she obeyed, and all went on to the satisfaction of the teacher. Cecilia next gave her a thimble, some needles, and a pair of scissors, which she had bought for her, together with a piece of linen, which she was to learn to hem. Nanette was farther advanced in this department than in the others. She had seen her mother work, and had tried to imitate her. Cecilia was very well pleased with the manner in which she held her needle, and fixed her hem; and praised her accordingly; and, thus encouraged, the hem was finished pretty quickly and tolerably well. At length, after two hours spent in this manner, hours which appeared to the mistress somewhat tedious, Nanette was dismissed, and Cecilia, while congratulating herself on the success of her efforts, found, nevertheless, that the task of education was not the easiest of work.

The next day she resumed her lessons with renewed courage, hoping to advance still farther than on the preceding one, but she found that everything had to be begun again. Nanette was as much puzzled to say A as she had been the first time. She did not recognize one of the letters, which she had repeated mechanically after Cecilia, who, as she now made her say them again one after the other, had the utmost difficulty in getting her to give two or three times by herself the name of the letter which had been taught her the moment before. At the piano, when Cecilia wanted her to begin the scale of ut, she put her finger upon sol, and when asked the name of the note she had struck, it was impossible for her to find any name for it: she did not even understand that the notes had names. Thus, all the success obtained that day was, that after half-an-hour's study, Nanette named at random a fa for a la, or a si for a re. Cecilia became very angry, and Nanette, who could not bear to be scolded, made so much haste to finish her hem, in order to escape from her, that when Cecilia examined it, she found six stitches one over the other, and another half-an-inch long.

The following days were not much more fortunate; for, on each occasion, Nanette had forgotten pretty nearly the whole of what little she had seemed to know on the previous day. As up to that time, she had never been taught anything, she was not accustomed to apply her mind, or fix her attention on things of which she did not understand the use, for it could not be said that she was deficient in sense, or abilities, for her age. She was by no means awkward, and did all she was capable of doing carefully enough; for instance, if she carried a light, she did not, like most children of her age, hold it in such a manner as to let the grease fall upon the ground; she even took care to snuff it for fear of sparks, before removing it from one place to another, and she managed to snuff it without putting it out; if she had to carry anything rather heavy from one room to another, she first opened the door and removed whatever might be in her way; or if, while holding a jug of water, she happened to catch her dress in any object, she did not, like most children, give a sudden jerk, and spill the water, but quietly put down her jug, and removed the obstacle. It was evident that she was accustomed to act, and seek the means of acting in the most useful manner. Moreover, she rendered a thousand little services to Mademoiselle Gerard, Madame de Vesac's lady's maid, who was extremely fond of her, and who, from having her continually with her, contrived, without tormenting her, to teach her many things which Nanette willingly learnt.

As to the lessons with Cecilia, they went on worse and worse every day: the pupil knew not how to learn, nor the mistress how to teach; Cecilia often lost patience, and Nanette, who saw her only to be scolded and wearied, feeling but little desire to please her, became at last careless; besides, after having studied for a few minutes a lesson in which she took no interest, her ideas became so completely confused by the irksomeness of her task, that she did not know what she was doing; so that, after having said her letters, and spelt very well with the lady's maid, who endeavoured to teach her, in order that she might not be scolded, when she came to Cecilia everything went wrong, and it was but an additional annoyance to the latter to find that it was only with Mademoiselle Gerard that Nanette read well.

Thanks, however, to Mademoiselle Gerard, Nanette did make some progress in reading and needlework; but as for music, at the end of six weeks she was no farther advanced than on the first day, and Cecilia, who entertained the idea of giving her an education which would enable her to shine in the world, became disgusted with efforts which could have no higher result than that of fitting her to become a shopkeeper or a lady's maid. The lessons, therefore, were but a succession of irritabilities, which prevented Cecilia from seeking the best means of making herself understood, and which ended by worrying Nanette. These two hours, so uselessly employed, became equally disagreeable to mistress and pupil, and both were delighted when any accident occurred to shorten them; and shortened they often were; for Cecilia, being on one occasion busy, hurried over all the lessons in half-an-hour, and this, having once occurred, occurred often. Sometimes, too, she made Nanette repeat her lesson without listening to her, or put her before the piano and told her to play, while she went about her own affairs, so that during this time, Nanette amused herself at her leisure, in playing whatever happened to suit her fancy. Sometimes, in fine, when Cecilia was busy with her drawing or anything that amused her, she would tell Nanette to take her books or her work, and then think no more about her. Nanette, meanwhile, would either be looking out at the window or catching flies; and when at last, after half-an-hour had elapsed, Cecilia observed her, she would scold her for her idleness, and send her away, saying that she had now no time to attend to her lessons.

All this took place in Cecilia's room, which was close to her mother's. For some time Madame de Vesac said nothing; she had never expected that Cecilia would carry out her projects of education with any perseverance, and she relied much more upon Mademoiselle Gerard, who was a respectable and sensible person, and whom she knew to be quite capable of bringing up Nanette in a manner suited to her station. Still she did not wish her daughter to get into the habit of doing carelessly what she undertook, nor to fancy that the duties of the day were performed when they were only gone through in appearance. Cecilia herself felt that things were not as they ought to be; so that, after having several times complained to her mother of the trouble which Nanette gave, she ceased to speak of the matter. At length one day, Madame de Vesac, after listening for half-an-hour to Nanette, who was strumming on the piano according to her own fancy, without receiving any attention from Cecilia, she asked the latter, if it was by giving lessons in that style that she hoped to make Nanette a great musician. Cecilia blushed, for she felt she was wrong; but she assured her mother, that Nanette had not the slightest taste for music. Madame de Vesac observed, that, from the way in which she had been taught, it was impossible to know whether this was the case or not.

"Mamma," said Cecilia, "I assure you she has no talent whatever; and it is this which has discouraged me."

"But I do not think she displays less inclination to learn to read and work than other children of her age; and yet I do not see that you are at all more zealous in these branches of her education."

"Oh, I attended especially to her music. Mademoiselle Gerard can teach her the rest, as well as I can."

"So then, you have taken Nanette in order to have her brought up by Mademoiselle Gerard?"

"No, mamma; but I thought Nanette would be able to learn what I wanted to teach her."

"And because she does not learn what you want to teach her, you do not think it worth while to teach her what she can learn: to do for her, at least, all that is in your power."

"But still, mamma, it is, I think, a lucky thing for Nanette that we have taken her, and I certainly shall always take care of her; but you must allow that there is no very great pleasure in teaching a little girl to read and sew, when it is evident that she can learn nothing more than that."

"To agree with you, I must first know precisely what kind of pleasure you expected when you took charge of Nanette?"

"The pleasure of being useful to her, by giving her a good education."

"And supposing her incapable of profiting by what you call a good education, you would not care to be useful to her by giving her at least such an education as she is capable of receiving."

"At all events, this would not give me so much pleasure."

"And to continue a good action which you have commenced, it is necessary that you should find it productive of much pleasure to yourself?"

"No, mamma; but...."

—"But, my child, there are many persons like you in that respect; they commence a good work with delight, and afterwards abandon it because their success is not as complete as they had expected."

"You must see, mamma," said Cecilia, a little piqued, "that it was not for my own advantage that I wished to give lessons to Nanette."

"I believe, indeed, it was for hers, and that you had fully reflected on the advantage she would derive from them."

"Indeed, mamma, it is a very fine thing for a little peasant girl, who would have remained ignorant, vulgar, and illiterate all her life, to be well educated and accomplished, and to be able to become amiable and agreeable, and fitted to move in elevated society."

"Especially," said Madame de Vesac, smiling, "when she is destined to move in elevated society."

"Who knows, mamma? a good marriage," resumed Cecilia, with vivacity; for her imagination was always ready to rush into romantic ideas, because it is such ideas that require the least reflection.

"Have you seen many of these marriages?" asked her mother.

"Though I may never have seen any, still..."

"Still you suppose, probably, that they are not unfrequent."

"I do not say that, but..."

"But I say," continued her mother, seriously, "that we are not permitted to amuse ourselves with such child's play, when the welfare of one of whom we have taken charge is at stake; and if you had bestowed upon Nanette an education which would make her disdain the humble career to which she is no doubt destined, you would have rendered her a very mischievous service."

"So then, mamma, you did not think I ought to give lessons to Nanette?"

"Not at all; but I was quite easy about the matter."

"Besides," said Cecilia, blushing, "here I am always interrupted, and then two hours for all the lessons are nothing; but we shall be going into the country in a month, where, if you will allow it, she will be more frequently with me, and I shall easily find the means of giving her a proper education."

"Very well," said Madame de Vesac, smiling; for she did not place much more reliance on her daughter's perseverance in the country than in Paris. Cecilia did not observe this smile; quite absorbed in her plans for the future education of Nanette, she began by interrupting it for the present, as if the good that was to be done at some distant day exempted her from performing that which was in her power at the actual moment. She therefore told Nanette, that she would give her no more lessons until they went into the country; and Nanette, to whom a month seemed a lifetime, imagined herself for ever freed, both from Cecilia and her lessons. Cecilia, whose month was taken up with two or three balls, with purchases, packing, and receiving visits from the friends who called to bid her good-bye, completely lost the habit of thinking of Nanette; and this habit she found so unpleasant to resume, that they had been a whole week in the country when her mother said to her:—

"And Nanette?"

"We are going to recommence our lessons," she replied, somewhat ashamed at not having done so earlier. "But you know," she added, "that on arriving in the country there are a thousand things to be done; besides, I do not think Nanette is very anxious."

"Nor you either, I suspect."

"It certainly does not amuse me much."

"But it will not amuse you more to-morrow than to-day; so that I do not see you have any more reason to begin to-morrow than you have had for the last week."

"But still you know, mamma, there is no need of being in a hurry when there is plenty of time."

"My child, we have never sufficient time before us to do all that ought to be done, for we can never be sure of time. A thousand accidents may deprive us of it; therefore we ought always to be anxious to do what has to be done, just as if we had only the time absolutely necessary for it. In this uncertainty as to the future, it was as necessary to have devoted to Nanette's education the week you have lost, as to give to it that which is to come."

Cecilia made no answer, but resumed her drawing. Madame de Vesac took up the book she had been reading. After the lapse of half-an-hour, Cecilia interrupted her occupation, saying, with a heavy sigh, "I am afraid I shall not succeed."

"In what?" inquired her mother.

"In what we were speaking of a short time since," said Cecilia, wishing to be understood without being forced to explain; "in Nanette's education."

"And why should you not succeed, if you desire it?" replied Madame de Vesac, still reading.

"I cannot manage to make her study properly."

"I do not see why you may not do what another can do;" and the conversation was again dropped, much to Cecilia's annoyance, for she had an idea which she was anxious though afraid to express. At length, after a quarter of an hour's silence, she again continued. "There is one very simple plan," she said.

"What for?" asked Madame de Vesac, without laying down her book.

"To educate Nanette," said Cecilia, impatiently.

"That plan would be, I think, to give her lessons."

"Mamma, I assure you it is very difficult, extremely difficult. If you would permit me to send her to the village school she would learn to read, and they could give her the elementary lessons in writing, which you know I cannot do; and when we return to Paris she will be sufficiently advanced for me to continue with her."

"Cecilia," said Madame de Vesac, "if you alone were concerned, I should not consent to this, for you must acquire the habit of persevering in what you undertake, and learn to bear the consequences of your own determinations. But Nanette would suffer from it; because, as you are neither sufficiently reasonable nor sufficiently patient to adopt the proper means of ensuring success, you would scold her for learning badly what you taught her badly, and thus she would be ill brought up and unhappy. You may therefore send her to school."

Cecilia, delighted at having obtained this permission, hastened to Mademoiselle Gerard, to beg her to inform the schoolmaster, and arrange with him the terms of Nanette's tuition. Mademoiselle Gerard, annoyed at being deprived of Nanette during so many hours in the morning, and foreseeing that this arrangement would displease her little pupil, declared that it was unnecessary, and wished to point out inconveniences in the plan. But Cecilia became angry at the first word (as always happens when we are not sure of being in the right), and said that it was Madame de Vesac's wish. The matter was therefore settled, and Nanette sent to school. For some time, Cecilia took an interest in her progress, and paid for her instruction cheerfully enough; and on her birthday, when Nanette recited some complimentary verses, composed by the schoolmaster, and in which she was styled her illustrious benefactress, Cecilia gave her a new dress, which Mademoiselle Gerard promised to make. But in course of time Cecilia had other fancies; and when the first of the month came round, she was annoyed at having to pay for Nanette's schooling. Mademoiselle Gerard had several times to remind her that Nanette required shoes; that she had worn and outgrown those she had; and that the small quantity of linen, and the caps and petticoats which had been made for her at first, were insufficient. Madame de Vesac had more than once contributed to her wardrobe; and Cecilia was one day a little ashamed at seeing the child in an apron made out of an old dress of Mademoiselle Gerard's. But in time she got reconciled to this, and began to see in Nanette only the protÉgÉe of the lady's maid. She never thought of her but when they happened to meet; and they became almost strangers to each other.

When they were about to return to Paris, Mademoiselle Gerard, whose health had been much impaired for some time past, was not in a condition to undertake the journey: so that Madame de Vesac resolved to leave her in the country until she got well. Mademoiselle Gerard had become so much accustomed to Nanette, that she could not bear the thought of parting with her; she therefore asked permission to retain her. Cecilia, as may be imagined, seconded the request; and Madame de Vesac, being then without a maid, and seeing that Nanette would only be an additional inconvenience, thought it as well to leave her with Mademoiselle Gerard, to whom she would be useful.

Thus was Cecilia, for the moment, relieved from all care of Nanette, and fully determined to think of her as little as possible, for the recollection was troublesome, as she could not but feel that she had not done for her all that she might have done. However, every month brought Mademoiselle Gerard's bill for Nanette's schooling, and other necessary expenses incurred on her account. Then came demands for shoes, linen, &c.; and although Mademoiselle Gerard was in this respect extremely economical, and not unfrequently assisted Nanette from her own wardrobe, still Cecilia found these expenses encroach sadly upon her allowance. Madame de Vesac, unknown to her, willingly undertook a part of them; but she would not undertake the whole, not thinking it right that her daughter should feel herself at liberty to transfer to her a duty which she had voluntarily imposed upon herself; and she insisted that Cecilia should not neglect the demands of Mademoiselle Gerard. But it happened that Madame de Vesac's husband was wounded while with the army, and though the wound was not dangerous, it was still of sufficient importance to prevent his being removed. His wife was therefore obliged to set off immediately to attend to him; and not wishing to take her daughter with her, she left her in the care of one of her aunts, who had two girls of her own, with whom Cecilia was delighted to have an opportunity of spending some time.

She had been with them about three days, when she received a letter from Mademoiselle Gerard. This letter could not have come at a more unwelcome moment, Cecilia having just taken a fancy to purchase a bonnet like one bought by her cousin, and imagining that Mademoiselle Gerard applied to her for money, "Oh!" she said, ill-temperedly, the moment she recognized the post-mark and handwriting, "I was quite sure this would not fail me; Mademoiselle Gerard always takes care to write whenever I want to buy anything for my own pleasure," and she threw the letter, unopened, upon the mantel-piece, and resumed her drawing, saying, "I shall read it quite soon enough."

"You had better spare yourself the trouble altogether," said the youngest of her cousins, who was very thoughtless, and, saying this, she took the letter, and threw it into the fire. Cecilia uttered a cry, and hastily rose to regain it, but before she had time to move her table, reach the fire-place, and seize the tongs, in spite of her cousin, who, laughing with all her might, endeavoured to prevent her, the letter was half destroyed. When, after having got it out, she wished to take hold of it, the flame burned her fingers, so that she let it fall, and, while vainly endeavouring to extinguish it with the tongs, her cousin, still laughing, took a large glass of water, and threw it over it. The letter ceased to burn, but the little that remained of it, was so blackened and impregnated with the water, that it was quite illegible, and Cecilia was, therefore, obliged to give up all thoughts of reading it. She scolded her cousin, telling her that she should now be obliged to write to Mademoiselle Gerard to know the contents of her letter, but, meanwhile, she bought the bonnet, and as, after having done so, she found herself without money, she was in no great hurry to know what Mademoiselle Gerard had written about; she, therefore, deferred writing from day to day, until a week or ten days had passed; then a fortnight elapsed, and the letter was still forgotten—finally, it remained unwritten at the end of three weeks. She little knew what was going on at the ChÂteau during this time.

Since their departure, the health of Mademoiselle Gerard had been constantly growing worse, she consequently became more fretful with every one except Nanette, of whom she was very fond, and who served her with zeal and intelligence. The only person who remained in the ChÂteau with her was the porter, an old servant named Dubois, a cross-grained, crabbed old man, though well enough disposed in the main. Mademoiselle Gerard, like the other servants, had frequently disputes with him, but as she was a sensible woman, these disputes were soon settled; now, however, that her temper became soured by illness, their disagreements increased in frequency and violence. It was part of Dubois' duty to supply her with everything she wanted, and when marketing for himself to buy what she required also. She was often discontented with his purchases, and, besides, if she asked for anything in the least out of the ordinary course, he told her it was too dear, and that Madame de Vesac would not permit such extravagance. Then Mademoiselle Gerard would cry, and bewail her misfortune in being left to the care of a man who would be the death of her. She had several times written to Madame de Vesac on the subject, who, well knowing her wishes to be unreasonable, endeavoured to calm her, and persuade her to wait patiently until her return; at the same time, she ordered Dubois not to vex her, as she was an invalid. Whenever the latter received these commands he became more ill-tempered than usual, because, he said, Mademoiselle Gerard had got him scolded by his mistress. At length their disagreements reached such a point, that Dubois would no longer enter the apartments of Mademoiselle Gerard, who, on her part, declared that, during the whole course of her life, she would never again speak to Dubois; so that she sent Nanette to get from him what she wanted. Poor little Nanette was often very much perplexed, as Mademoiselle Gerard, always dissatisfied with what Dubois sent her, never failed to break out into complaints whenever Nanette carried her the meat he had bought at the market, or the fruit and vegetables he had gathered in the garden. She declared he had chosen the very worst for her, and that he wanted to kill her; and such was her weakness on these occasions, that she would sometimes begin to cry. Nanette, who was very fond of her, was grieved at seeing her so much distressed, and would stand looking at her in perfect silence; then Mademoiselle Gerard would kiss her, and say, "If I were to die, who would take care of you?" for, in her weakness, she imagined there was no one in the world who would take an interest in Nanette but herself. The child returned her caresses, comforting her in her way, and assuring her that she would not die. She could not understand her friend's distress, but she would have done much to see her happy. But when Mademoiselle Gerard wanted to send her to Dubois to complain of what he had given her, she told her she dared not go, because on two or three occasions he had been so enraged with her that she was terribly frightened of him. Then she would repeat for the twentieth time what he had said the day she took back to him the decayed pears, and how, when she went to tell him that the slices of beet-root were bad, he flew into a furious passion, saying that servants were more difficult to please than their masters, then gave such a kick to his cupboard door, for the purpose of shutting it, and flung a carrot which he held in his hand with such violence across the room, that she ran away terrified, for fear of being beaten. She also repeated all that he had said about Mademoiselle Gerard herself, that he should never have a moment's peace so long as she was in the house, and that he would willingly give five pounds out of his own pocket, if she were only so far out of his way that he might never hear her name mentioned again. Then Mademoiselle Gerard became alarmed at his hatred, and could not endure the thought of remaining alone with him in the ChÂteau, saying that unless her mistress returned very soon she should be lost. If on these occasions Dubois happened to pass near her apartment, she ran to bolt and barricade the door, as if he were going to murder her. It was in moments of fever that these ideas took possession of her mind, and more especially in the evening, because the room occupied by Dubois was close to her own. The mere idea of having to pass the night so near him threw her into a frightful state of agitation. Nanette, without knowing why, shared in her alarm, and as soon as it began to get dusk she would run and bolt the doors. During the day they were more calm, and Nanette even amused herself by playing tricks upon Dubois.

He kept his fruit and other provisions in a room on the ground floor, one window of which looked upon the court-yard of the ChÂteau, and another into the poultry-yard. When the weather was fine, he used each morning to open the window that commanded the court-yard, go his rounds of the kitchen-garden and poultry-yard, and then return and close the window. Nanette had several times watched for the moment of his departure, and, taking advantage of his absence, had climbed to the window, entered the room, carried back the apples he had sent to Mademoiselle Gerard, and with which she was dissatisfied, and taken finer ones in their stead. She was careful whilst in the room to watch for Dubois through the window that looked into the poultry-yard, and the moment she caught a glimpse of him she made her escape. The first time this occurred, Mademoiselle Gerard gently reprimanded her for having gone through the window; but since her illness she had become too weak to be reasonable in anything, so that a few days later, being greatly annoyed at again receiving some apples which she declared were bad, she said to Nanette, "Could you not manage to get others for me?" Nanette desired nothing better, for she had been much amused with her first stratagem; she, therefore, again watched for Dubois' departure, clambered through the window, and accomplished her task with perfect success, and then diverted Mademoiselle Gerard, to whom her tricks had become a source of amusement, by mimicking the limping gait and surly expression of Dubois, as she had seen him returning in the distance. Nanette, who never took anything for herself, and even for her friend only made exchanges, did not feel the slightest scruple in respect to the propriety of her conduct; while to Mademoiselle Gerard, whose mind had become too far enfeebled to be capable of much reflection, it never occurred that she was encouraging the child in a bad habit, and exposing her to suspicion.

One day, when she had sent to Dubois for some dried grapes, she pretended, as usual, that he had chosen the worst for her, and, as children always see what they fancy they see, Nanette assured her that she had really observed him select the worst, and offered her good friend (as she always named Mademoiselle Gerard) to go and bring some better ones, from the cupboard in which she knew he always kept them locked up. Her friend consented, and Nanette having seen Dubois open the window and depart, started on her expedition. She got into the room, found the key of the cupboard, and began to make her selection. She was so busy that it did not occur to her that the door of the press concealed from her the window which looked upon the poultry-yard, and consequently, that she could not peep out as usual to see if Dubois were coming. Two or three times, indeed, she did interrupt her occupation, to go and look out, but not at the right moment, so that Dubois passed unperceived, and just when she considered herself perfectly safe, she heard a voice of thunder exclaiming, "Oh! you little thief; I have caught you, then!" and saw before the window the terrible Dubois, barring her passage. For the moment, she thought herself dead; but, fortunately, Dubois was too fat and too heavy to be able to get through the window: he could only overwhelm her with reproaches. Pale and trembling, her heart sinking with fright, she stood silent and motionless. But, at length, watching the moment when he went round to the door, she leaped through the window, and ran round the yard, pursued by Dubois, who, with vehement exclamations, endeavoured to reach her with his stick. Mademoiselle Gerard, hearing the noise, opened her window, and seeing the danger of her favourite, she lost all self-control, and screamed out, "Help! Help! Murder!" Dubois, furious, raised his eyes, and not knowing much better than herself what he was about, threatened her with his stick, and then recommenced his pursuit of Nanette, who by this time had gained the staircase. He mounted after her, and arrived at the moment when she and Mademoiselle Gerard were trying to shut the door; he pushed it open, and forced an entrance, almost upsetting Mademoiselle Gerard, who threw herself before Nanette, as if to prevent his touching her. Still more enraged by this movement, which seemed to imply that he intended to hurt the child, and worse in words than in deeds, he stopped, suffocated at once by anger and by his chase: then, recovering breath, he poured forth a volley of invectives, both against Nanette, whom he called a jade, and against Mademoiselle Gerard, whom he accused of encouraging her in stealing, and becoming a spy about the house. Mademoiselle Gerard, trembling at once with fear and indignation, told him that Nanette did not steal, that she only endeavoured to obtain something better than he had sent to poison her; that she was very unfortunate in being abandoned to a monster like him, but that her mistress would soon be back, and do her justice for all this.

"O yes!" said Dubois, "count upon Madame's return, but before she comes back you will have time to set out for the other world!"

After this piece of brutality, which satisfied his passion, he left them. Mademoiselle Gerard fell down almost insensible; and the surgeon who attended her found her, on his arrival, in a high state of fever. He had, besides, just been informed of M. de Vesac's wound, and of the departure of his wife, and communicated this intelligence to Mademoiselle Gerard, who now perceived the import of Dubois' words; and the idea of having to remain perhaps for six months longer at the mercy of such a man, filled her mind with a terror and agitation which it was impossible to subdue. As her imagination was now disordered by fever, she said that Dubois would kill Nanette; and when the latter declared that she could never dare ask him for anything again, Mademoiselle Gerard expected nothing less than to be starved to death. She determined therefore to go to her brother, who was married and established as a shopkeeper in a neighbouring town. It was in vain that the surgeon endeavoured to oppose this caprice, by representing to her that she was too ill to be removed without danger. Her fever and agitation increased so much by contradiction, that he found it necessary to yield to her desire. He therefore sent to the farm for a horse and cart, settled her with as little inconvenience as possible, and thus accompanied by Nanette, and taking with her all her effects, she started for the town, where she arrived almost in a dying state.

She remained several days in this condition; then became a little better, but was still so feeble that she began to give up all hope of recovery. Wishing to dispose of the little property she possessed, she sent for a notary. Her whole wealth consisted in a sum of a thousand crowns, the fruit of her savings, and which, from her suspicious character, she had been afraid of placing out at interest, for fear of being cheated, and therefore always kept in her own possession. She left two thousand four hundred francs to her brother, and six hundred to Nanette, with part of her effects. Then, on learning from the surgeon his belief that Cecilia had remained in Paris, she wrote to inform her of the condition she was in, begging her to make it known to Madame de Vesac, and to ask what, in the event of her death, was to be done with Nanette. This was the letter which Cecilia's cousin threw into the fire. Mademoiselle Gerard receiving no reply, supposed that Cecilia had left Paris; and feeling herself growing daily worse, she got the clergyman who visited her to write a long letter to Madame de Vesac. In this letter she recommended Nanette to her care, and without complaining of Dubois, whom the clergyman had prevailed upon her to forgive, she explained to her mistress that Nanette was not a thief, as Dubois had accused her of being.

Soon after this letter had been despatched she died; and thus was poor Nanette left utterly friendless. Mademoiselle Gerard's brother and his wife were selfish people; they had been annoyed at the affection she manifested for Nanette, because they were afraid she would leave her whatever she possessed. They supposed she must have amassed a considerable sum of money, and were confirmed in this opinion, when the day after her death they discovered in her apartment the thousand crowns. Knowing that she had made a will, the husband hastened to the notary, eager to learn its contents; and when it was opened in his presence he was very much astonished, and extremely dissatisfied, at finding that instead of being left a considerable legacy, as he expected, he should be obliged to give Nanette six hundred francs out of the thousand crowns, of which he had already taken possession. He returned home and communicated his information to his wife, who, being still more selfish than himself, was more enraged. She overwhelmed with abuse poor little Nanette, who, quite unconscious of what it all meant, remained terrified and motionless on the spot. Whilst giving vent to her passion the woman continued to arrange and sweep out her shop, and being near Nanette, she struck her with the broom, as if to make her get out of the way. The child ran crying to another corner of the shop. The broom which kept on its course seemed to pursue her; she jumped over it, and went to another part of the room, still it was after her. The activity of the shopkeeper seemed to increase with Nanette's terrors, and every movement she made was accompanied by threatening and abusive language. At length, not knowing where to fly for safety, the poor child ran to the threshold of the door; the woman pushed her out with her broom, saying, "Yes! yes! be off, you may be quite sure I shall not take the trouble to run after you;" and she closed the door upon her. Nanette remained for some time crying outside. At length, hearing some one about to open the door, and thinking it was her persecutor coming out to beat her, she ran off as fast as she could.

The street in which she happened to be led to the entrance of the town; when she had advanced some distance into the country she sat down upon a stone, and, still crying, began to eat a piece of bread, the remains of her breakfast, which she happened to have in her hand at the moment of her expulsion from the shop. A little boy came up to her, and asked what was the matter. Nanette at first made no reply; he repeated his question, and she told him that she did not know where to go.

"Come with me to Dame Lapie's," said the little fellow.

"Who is Dame Lapie?" demanded Nanette.

"Why Dame Lapie; she lives in the village yonder, but just now she is begging on the high road. Come along," and he wanted to take Nanette by the hand, but she drew back. The little boy was dirty and ragged, and Nanette had been accustomed to neatness. Moreover the sorrow she had endured the previous day, the death of her protector, the abuse of the shopkeeper's wife, and her own precipitate flight, had quite bewildered her, as is nearly always the case with children when anything extraordinary is passing around them. At those times, not knowing what to do, they remain in one spot, without coming to any decision. Nanette sat there on her stone without knowing what was to become of her, because at that moment her mind was not sufficiently clear to enable her to decide on leaving it. After several fruitless attempts to induce her to accompany him, the little boy left her, and Nanette remained still seated on the stone. Some time after, however, on looking towards the town, she saw a woman approaching, whom she mistook for the shopkeeper; she became afraid, got up, and again went on, still following the high road.

She walked for a full hour, without knowing whither she went, when at a turn in the road she perceived an old woman sitting at the foot of a tree, and surrounded by five or six little children, of from two to four years of age. The little boy who had spoken to her, and who might be about seven or eight, was standing talking to the old woman. The moment he perceived Nanette he pointed her out, saying, "See, there she is, that is her." Nanette crossed over to the other side of the road, for she was afraid of every one, but the old woman rose and went to her. Nanette would have run away, but the woman took her by the hand, spoke gently to her, and told her not to be frightened, for she would do her no harm. Nanette looked at her, felt reassured by her kind expression of countenance, and told her that she had run away from the town because they wanted to beat her.

"It is your mother who wanted to beat you," said Dame Lapie; "well never mind, we will settle that; come, we will go and ask her to forgive you, and then she will not beat you;" saying this, she made a movement as if wishing to lead her back to the town. Nanette, terrified, began to scream and struggle, saying that it was not her mother, and that she would not return to the town. "Well, then, we will not go, you shall come with us," but Nanette still struggled to withdraw her hand; Dame Lapie let it go, and as Nanette went on, contented herself with following and talking to her. "Who will give you anything to eat to-day?" she demanded. Nanette, crying, replied, "I don't know." "Where will you sleep to-night?" asked Dame Lapie. "I don't know," said Nanette, still crying. "Come with me," continued Dame Lapie, "I promise you we will not return to the town." "Come with us," said the little boy, who had also followed her, and Nanette at last suffered herself to be persuaded. Dame Lapie led her back to the foot of the tree, gave her a piece of black bread and an apple, and while eating it, for she was beginning to feel hungry, she recovered her calmness a little.

Dame Lapie was an old woman to whom the people of the village intrusted their children, whilst they went to work in the fields. She had always five or six, whom she went for in the morning, and took home again at night. The little boy who had spoken to Nanette, and whose name was Jeannot, was one of those she had taken care of in this way. His parents dying whilst he was very young, Dame Lapie would not abandon him, but not being able to support him herself, she sent him to beg. She herself also went, and sat by the road-side, with the little children around her, and asked alms of the passers by; and the parents of the children were either ignorant of this, or did not trouble themselves about it, especially as Dame Lapie always shared with the little ones whatever she obtained.

Jeannot seeing Dame Lapie receiving children every day, imagined that all who had no homes ought to go to her; and therefore he had sought to lead Nanette to her; and the dame, meeting with a little girl neatly clad, wandering about alone, without knowing where she went, was persuaded, notwithstanding Nanette's assertions that she had run away from her mother, to whom she should be rendering a service by restoring her. She intended, therefore, as soon as she had learned from Nanette who were her parents, to go and see them, promising to restore their daughter, on condition that they would not beat her, for Dame Lapie could not bear the idea of having children ill treated, or even annoyed. Meanwhile, when she returned at night to the village, she made Nanette accompany her, and gave her two of the children to lead; this amused Nanette, but she was not quite so much diverted, when at night the dame had nothing to give her for supper but the same kind of black bread which she had had for dinner, and this too without the apple. Neither did she feel much inclined to sleep with Dame Lapie, whose bed was very disagreeable; still it was necessary, and she slept very soundly after all. Jeannot, as usual, slept upon some straw in a corner of the hut.

During the night, Dame Lapie was seized with so violent an attack of rheumatism that she could not move a limb; and, as she was unable to go to the town, she told Nanette that she must return home to her mother. Nanette again began to cry, saying that her mother did not live in the town, that her good friend was dead, and that there remained no one but of her good friend's sister, and she wanted to beat her; she did not allude to the ChÂteau, for she was still more afraid of Dubois than of the shopkeeper. Dame Lapie asked where her mother was, but Nanette scarcely remembered the name of her native village; everything she said on the subject was so confused, and she cried so much, that the old woman could make nothing out, and resolved to let the matter rest for the present. On several occasions, during the following days, she renewed her questions, but always with the same result; and, too ill to insist much on the matter, she determined, as soon as she was better, to go to the town and make inquiries herself.

Nanette, meanwhile, rendered her a thousand little services; she was gentle and attentive, and delighted in giving pleasure. The constant attention required by Mademoiselle Gerard had rendered her alive to the wants of sick people. She also took care of the little children, who were always brought to Dame Lapie's, and, accompanied by Jeannot, went out with them upon the road. Jeannot did all he could to cheer her; but she was sad. She remembered the good dinners she had with Mademoiselle Gerard, and the black bread became distasteful to her; nevertheless, there was nothing else for her, and not always enough even of that. On one occasion, she was obliged to go to bed supperless, and passed a part of the night in crying; but so as not to be heard by Dame Lapie, because, whenever the dame saw her crying from hunger, she scolded her, and asked her why she did not go and beg like Jeannot.

The winter had passed; the spring was very wet; and when it rained, the water penetrated into Dame Lapie's hut, which was somewhat below the level of the street. This rendered it very unhealthy. It was also unhealthy for Nanette to sleep with this old woman, who was an invalid. Nanette was naturally of a delicate constitution, and the misery in which her infancy had been passed left her in a state of but very moderate health at the time she was taken by Madame de Vesac. Under the care of Mademoiselle Gerard, she recovered her strength, but not sufficiently to enable her to bear the present relapse into misery. If Jeannot was able to endure the same inconveniences, it was because he was of a strong, lively, and active temperament, which prevented him from yielding to depression; whereas Nanette, mild, quiet, and even a little inclined to indolence, gave way to discouragement and sadness—a thing which always increases our troubles. Jeannot besides was a favourite with the neighbours; every one caressed him, and gave him something; but they had been greatly displeased by the arrival of Nanette, and thought it very wrong of Dame Lapie to take charge of a child of whom she knew nothing, and who, they said, was only an additional beggar in the village; so that not unfrequently, when Nanette went into the streets, she heard the women and children crying out against her. Under the combined influence of grief, unwholesome food, and want of cleanliness, Nanette soon fell ill. She was seized with a fever, and in the course of a few days became dreadfully changed. Dame Lapie, who was now able to leave her bed, and attend to the children, told her that, as she could not beg, she must at least go with Jeannot, who would beg for her; and that she would get the more when it was seen that she was so ill. Jeannot, who was much more quick and shrewd than Nanette, led her by the hand, and she suffered him to do so, for she had no longer the strength to resist anything. When they reached a spot where they could be seen by those who passed along the road, she seated herself on a stone, or at the foot of a tree, and Jeannot solicited alms for his little sister who was ill; and, indeed, she looked so ill and so unhappy, that she excited commiseration, and obtained for Jeannot additional contributions.

Meantime, Cecilia carried into execution her determination of writing to Mademoiselle Gerard; but as she, of course, addressed her letter to the ChÂteau, it was received by Dubois, who for some days had no opportunity of forwarding it to the town, and in the interval learned that Mademoiselle Gerard was dead. He was then grieved at having treated her with so much brutality the day before her departure; but as for Nanette, when told that she had run away from the shopkeeper's, and had not since been heard of, he took no further trouble in the matter, quite satisfied in his own mind that she was a thief, and that they were very fortunate to be rid of her. Of all these matters he sent an account to Madame de Vesac; but her husband having recovered and returned to active service, she had just left for Paris, and neither received this letter nor the one sent to her by Mademoiselle Gerard a few days prior to her death, and which, having passed through Paris, had been delayed a considerable time on the way. Madame de Vesac stayed only a few days at the capital, and then set out with her daughter for her country-seat, ignorant of all that had lately happened there. She had made inquiries of Cecilia respecting Mademoiselle Gerard; and Cecilia being unable to give her any information, was obliged to confess her negligence. Her mother severely reprimanded her, though little imagining the misfortunes this negligence had produced.

They were four days on their journey, and while changing horses at the last post but one, Cecilia descended from the carriage, and leaving the yard of the inn, went to breathe the fresh air on the high road. Immediately a little boy came towards her, asking charity for his little sister who was ill, at the same time pointing her out to Cecilia, who, in fact, beheld a little girl seated on the ground, with a dying look, and her head leaning against a stone; at that moment she was sleeping; her clothes were in rags, and so dirty, that their colour could scarcely be distinguished. Cecilia, while looking at her, was seized with pity, and struck by her resemblance to Nanette; but it never occurred to her that it could be Nanette. Just then she was called, and giving the little boy a penny, telling him it was for his sister, she returned to the carriage, her mind filled with the thought of the poor little girl she had just seen; yet she did not dare to speak of her to her mother, fearing that by recalling the memory of Nanette she might revive those reproaches which her conscience told her she deserved. What, then, was her consternation, when, on arriving at the ChÂteau, she was informed of the death of Mademoiselle Gerard, and the disappearance of Nanette. While Dubois was relating these particulars, Madame de Vesac fixed her eyes upon her daughter, who at one moment looked at her with an expression of great anxiety, and at the next cast down her eyes ashamed. As soon as Dubois had left the room, Cecilia, pale and trembling, with clasped hands, and a look of despair, said to her mother, "Oh! mamma, if it was that little girl I saw close to the post-house, who looked as if she were dying." Her mother asked her what grounds she had for such an idea. Cecilia informed her, and, while doing so, wept bitterly; for the more she thought of the subject, the less doubt did she entertain of its being poor little Nanette. "I am sure I recognised her," she continued; "and now I remember that she wore the blue dress I gave her. It was all torn, and I could scarcely tell the colour; but it was the same, I am sure. Poor little Nanette!" And with this, she redoubled her tears. She entreated that some one might be sent immediately to the inn, to make inquiries; but it was then too late in the day, and she dreaded lest the delay of a few hours should render Nanette so much worse as to be past recovery. Her agitation increased every moment. Madame de Vesac gave orders that the following morning, as soon as it was light, some one should go to the post-house, to ascertain if the people knew anything of the little girl who was begging at the door on the previous day. Cecilia passed a sleepless night, and rose the next morning before daybreak; and she was awaiting the return of the messenger even before he had started. He did return at last, but without any information. Nanette had never before been at the inn, and the people had not noticed her, and were at a loss to understand the object of all these inquiries. Cecilia was in hopes she would return there during the day, and a messenger was again sent to inquire; but Nanette did not make her appearance, for the post-house was situated at a considerable distance from the village in which Dame Lapie lived; and, in her feeble and suffering condition, the walk had so much exhausted her that she found it impossible to return. "Oh, mamma," exclaimed Cecilia, "perhaps she is dead." At that moment she felt all the anguish of the most dreadful remorse; her agitation almost threw her into a fever. Inquiries were made in the town; and the shopkeeper's wife stated that Nanette had run away, and no one knew what had become of her. The neighbours were also applied to; and they, disliking the sister-in-law of Mademoiselle Gerard, and having heard of the will, said, that to avoid paying the six hundred francs to Nanette, she was quite capable of forcing her, by her ill treatment, to run away, and that perhaps even she had turned her out of doors. To this were added conjectures and rumours, some declaring that a little girl had been met one night in the fields, almost perished with cold; others saying that one had been found on the high road, nearly starved to death; but when questioned further on the point, no one could tell who had seen this little girl, nor what had become of her; for these were only false reports, such as are always circulated in cases of disaster. Cecilia, however, believed them, and they threw her into despair. At this time, Mademoiselle Gerard's letter reached them; it contained a complete justification of Nanette, whom Dubois persisted in regarding as a thief; it also proved that, if Cecilia had written immediately on the receipt of her first letter, Nanette would not have been lost. This redoubled Cecilia's distress. To complete it, there arrived another letter, bearing the post-mark of the village in which Nanette's mother lived. It was written by the clergyman, at the poor woman's request. In this letter, she said that they had several times heard—but not until it was too late,—that Madame de Vesac had passed by. This had very much grieved her, as she would have been glad to have seen her daughter for a moment; but she was told that Nanette was not with them, and feeling extremely uneasy, she entreated Mademoiselle Cecilia—to whom the letter was addressed—to send her some intelligence of her child. The clergyman concluded by saying: "God will bless you, my dear young lady, because you do not abandon the poor." This letter pierced Cecilia to the heart. She grew thin with grief and anxiety; every time the door opened, she fancied there was some news of Nanette. Her eyes were constantly directed towards the avenue, as if she expected to see her coming; and at night she woke up with a start at the slightest noise, as if it announced her return. At last her mother resolved that they would themselves make inquiries in all the neighbouring villages, and speak to all the clergymen, although still fearing that they were too late. They therefore set out one afternoon, and as they approached a village, but a short distance from the town, Cecilia, who was anxiously looking in every direction, uttered a cry, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma, that's her! there she is! I see her! I see the same little boy!" and she caught hold of the coachman's coat, to make him stop the quicker, and darting out of the carriage, rushed towards Nanette, who was lying on the ground, with her head leaning against a tree, seeming scarcely able to breathe. Cecilia threw herself on the ground by her side, spoke to her, raised her up, and kissed her. Nanette recognised her, and began to weep; Cecilia wept also, and taking her upon her knees, she caressed her, called her her dear Nanette, her poor little Nanette. The child looked at her with astonishment, while a faint flush animated her cheeks. Madame de Vesac soon reached the spot. Cecilia wanted to have Nanette put instantly into the carriage, and taken home; but Madame de Vesac questioned Jeannot, who stood staring in the utmost astonishment, utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of what he saw. While Cecilia was arranging Nanette in the carriage, Madame de Vesac, conducted by Jeannot, went to Dame Lapie's cottage. The old woman was sitting at her door, still unable to walk, and related all she knew about the child. Madame de Vesac gave her some money, and returned to Cecilia, who was dying with impatience to see Nanette home, and in a comfortable bed. She got there at last. Cecilia nursed her with the greatest care, and for a whole week never left her bedside, frequently rising in the night to ascertain how she was. At last the surgeon pronounced her out of danger; but it was long before she was restored to health, and still longer before she recovered from the sort of stupidity into which she had been thrown by such a series of misfortunes and suffering. When quite well, Cecilia was desirous of resuming her education with more regularity than formerly; but this education had now become still more difficult than at first, and Cecilia could no longer assume her former authority; for, whenever she was going to scold Nanette, she remembered how much she had suffered through her negligence, and dared not say a word. She felt that to have the right of doing to others all the good we wish, and of ordering what may be useful to them, we must never have done them any injury. She therefore sent Nanette to school, and economized her allowance, in order to be able afterwards to apprentice her to a business. The brother of Mademoiselle Gerard was made to refund the six hundred francs; but Cecilia desired that the sum might be kept for a marriage portion for Nanette, when she was grown up. Madame de Vesac gave Jeannot a suit of clothes; and Dame Lapie had permission to send every week to the chÂteau for vegetables. Madame de Vesac spent not only this summer, but the winter also, and the following summer, in the country; so that Nanette had time to learn to read, and make some progress in writing. This was a source of great joy to Cecilia, who, for some time, feared that her mind was totally stupified. In conversing on the subject with her mother, after she had been relieved of all anxiety in regard to it, Madame de Vesac said to her: "We never know what injury we may do when we confer favours heedlessly and solely for our own pleasure, and without being willing to give ourselves any trouble. This is not the way to do good. Those whom you neglect, after having led them to expect assistance, find, when you have abandoned them, that they had calculated upon you, and are now without resource; so that you have done them more harm than if you had never aided them."