was to go as Evangeline, and I was to be Priscilla the Puritan Maiden, but none of us knew in what character Maura Merle was to appear. It was kept secret.

Knowing the state of her finances, both Miss Melford and the girls offered to provide her costume, but she gratefully and firmly rejected both proposals, saying that she had made arrangements for a dress, and that it would be a surprise.

And indeed it was, for when we all assembled in the white drawing-room, in readiness for our escort to the Town Hall, Maura was what newspapers style "the cynosure of all eyes."

She wore a frock of pale blue silk! and all over it in golden letters were the words: "Sweets from Fairyland."

Her waving golden hair was adorned by a small, white satin, Trigon hat, ornamented with a blue band, on which were the words: "Fairy Queen."

From her waist depended an elaborate bonbonnière, her sash was dotted all over with imitation confections of various kinds, her blue satin shoes had rosettes of tiny bonbons, and her domino suggested chocolate cream.

There were of course loud exclamations of—"What does this mean, Maura?"

"Why, you are Fairy Queen, like the Fairyland Confectioner's Company's advertisements!" but all Maura said was:

"Girls, Miss Melford knows all about it, and approves."

At this juncture, Miss Melford's voice was heard saying: "Follow me, my dears," and we all filed out of the room, and down the stairs to the carriages in waiting. The Town Hall was beautifully decorated, and the costumes were delightful. There were cavaliers, sweeps, princesses, and beggar-maids, but no one attracted more notice than Fairy Queen, who instead of dancing glided about amongst the company, offering fondants and caramels from her big bonbonnière.

The young guests laughed as they ate the sweetmeats, and rallied her upon the character she had chosen.

"Why have you left Fairyland?" asked a musketeer, and Fairy Queen replied:

"Because I want you all to have fairy fare."

"Won't you dance, Fairy Queen?" asked Bonnie Prince Charlie, persuasively, but Fairy Queen curtsied, and answered:

"I pray you excuse me, I'm on duty for the Company in Wayverne Square."

I guessed that there was something behind all this, and the sequel proved my conjecture true.

For when the Bal Masqué was a golden memory, Maura came to me with a little bundle of receipted bills in her hand, saying:

"Look, Gloria, "Fairy Queen" paid these. I was with Ivy in a confectioner's one day when the mistress told us that a member of the newly started firm of sweetmeat manufacturers, who traded as the Fairyland Company, had said that he wished he had a daughter who could go to the ball as Fairy Queen, and exploit his goods.

"I thought to myself: 'Well, Maura Merle could do it,' and I went to the Company and offered to undertake the duty, subject, of course, to Miss Melford's permission.

"They said they would give me a handsome sum, and provide the dress, and I wrote to Uncle Felix, and begged him to let me have his sanction.

"His answer was: 'The money will be honestly earned, earn it.'

"So I did! The Company were much pleased with me, and here are the receipted bills. I need hardly tell you how much I enjoyed being what a newsboy in the street called me, 'The Little Chocolate Girl!'"

IV.—MARGOT: THE MARTYR.

I.
At School.

"Mademoiselle Margot, Professor Revere's daughter, who has come to share your English studies, girls," said Miss Melford, presenting a tall, clear-complexioned, sweet-faced girl one May morning on the opening of school.

The new-comer bowed gracefully, and then took a vacant seat next to me, and we all took good-natured notice of her, for her black frock was worn for her newly lost mother, and her father, our popular French master, was an exile, who for a supposed political offence had forfeited his estate, near La Ville Sonnante, as the old city of Avignon is often called. Margot would have been une grande demoiselle in her own country had not monsieur fallen under the displeasure of a powerful cabinet minister during a change of régime, and Miss Melford's girls were of opinion that the position would have suited her, and she the position.

Mademoiselle Margot soon interested us all, not only in herself, but in her antecedents and prospects. She was never tired of talking of her old associations, and that with an enthusiasm that aroused our sympathy and inspired our hopes.

"Picture to yourself," she would say, "Mon Désir on a summer's day, the lawns spreading out their lovely carpet for the feet, the trees waving their glorious foliage overhead, the birds singing in the branches, the bees humming in the parterre, and the water plashing in the fountains. Maman loved it, as I did, and the country people loved us as we loved them. Maman used to say, 'A little sunshine, a little love, a little self-denial, that is life.' Even had we been poor there, walked instead of ridden, ate brown bread in lieu of white, we should have been amongst our own people. But now——"

Then we would all crowd round her and spin romances about the Prince Charming who would come her way, and present her with Mon Désir, with all its dear delights, and with it—his own hand.

Margot's failing was a too sensitive pride. She was proud both of and for the professor. She could not forget that he was, as she would say, un grand gentilhomme, that his ancestors had fought with Bayard and Turenne, had been gentlemen-in-waiting to kings, had wedded women who were ladies of the court.

I discovered this slight fault of my darling's on one occasion in this way: as we girls were going our usual noonday walk, we came to a large, red-brick house, standing alone in its own grounds; it was not a cottage of gentility, but a place which an estate agent would have described as a desirable mansion. Everything about it, mutely, but eloquently, said money. Big glass-houses, big coach-houses, big plate glass windows, spacious gardens, trim lawns, etc., etc., etc.

As the school filed past, an elaborate barouche drew up to the iron gateway, and a lady, who was about entering it, stared at our party, and then looked keenly at Margot. She was a pretty woman, blonde, with a mass of fluffy, honey-coloured hair, and a cold, pale blue pair of eyes. Her costume was of smooth, blue-grey cloth, the flowing cloak lined with ermine, and her hat a marvel of millinery; indeed, she presented a striking contrast to the professor's daughter in her plain, neat black coat and frock, and small toque, with its trimming of white narcissi, and I cannot say that I was favourably impressed by the unknown, she was far too cold and purse-proud looking to please me.

After a close and none too polite scrutiny, the lady bowed, approached, and held out her hand.

"Good-morning, Miss Revere," she said graciously, yet with more than a suspicion of patronage, "I trust the professor is well," and without waiting for an answer, "and your mother? We have been so busy entertaining, that I have been quite unable to call, or send! However, tell her that I am going to send for her to Bellevue, the very first day I'm alone, the very first!"

We two girls were alone (the rest having gone on with Fräulein Schwartze), and there was silence for a moment, during which the lady turned toward her well-appointed carriage; then Margot spoke, with some asperity, though I heard the tears in her silvery voice.

"Mrs. Seawood," she said, "there is no more need to trouble; maman has gone