With characteristic obstinacy she held to the office intrusted to her when she was elastic and graceful; when her wrinkled skin was bright smooth gold; when her lips were full and red, and her teeth white and firm as the shell they clasped. That was before the trees were allowed to overshadow the garden, and the moss to hang in such mournful folds; when the roses were kept in subjection; when the occupants of the tombs under the clump of cypresses out there, her masters and mistresses, hurried in from fields, levee, and garden at her clear resonant calls,—calls which easily vaulted the broad stream and fell in musical cadence on the opposite bank.
Marie Modeste caught the sound on the levee, and started as if she were still at school and still punishable.
"Aïe, Marcélite! the horn! I shall be late again for supper."
Oh la nature! la belle nature! Marie had written compositions on it, and learned poetry about it; but that was before she and Racine and Corneille had seen it. This was all different,—these sunsets and moon-risings, these
