baby days, belonging to the other side of her memory. It consisted of one simple petition for her own welfare, but the blessings of peace, prosperity, and eternal salvation of her uncle and Marcélite were insisted upon with pious determination.
"I know I shall not sleep, I cannot sleep." Even with the words she sank into the oblivion of tired nature at seventeen years; an oblivion which blotted out everything,—toilette, prizes scattered on the floor, graduation, disappointment, and discomfort from the gilt-paper crown still encircling her black plaits.
"Has Marcélite come?" demanded Madame, before she tasted her coffee.
"Not yet, Madame."
"I wonder what has become of her?"
Jeanne sniffed a volume of unspeakable probabilities.
"Well, then, I will not have that sotte Julie; tell her so when she comes. I would rather dress myself."
"Will Madame take her breakfast alone, or with Madame Joubert?"
