re-seating herself.

The minute passed away, so did many other minutes, but Tom did not stir.

After again trying in vain the power of her pleadings and commands, the weak-minded mother took her son by the sleeve of his coat. "Come," she said, "to bed with you."

Tommy began to cry.

She dragged him out of the room and up the stairs. He screamed and kicked, but was finally placed in his cot. Mrs. Soher had hardly stepped into the kitchen, when her son was heard crying.

"I am frightened," he bawled; "the fire—the witches—the book."

"Bah!" said his mother, "he'll go to sleep soon." And so he did.

CHAPTER III.

r. Rougeant had returned early from "the town" on that Saturday afternoon. He was now perusing the Gazette Officielle, the only newspaper which he ever cast his eyes upon. The servant—a good old Guernsey soul, who had been in the service of the family for ten years—was busily engaged in preparing the dinner. Contrary to the farmer's orders, Adèle had been sent by Lizette (the servant) to fetch the cider.

Unluckily for the little girl, Mr. Rougeant did not care to go to the expense of buying a tap. In its stead he had a number of small holes bored in one end of the cask. In these holes, which were placed vertically, one above the other, tight fitting wooden pegs had been driven. One of these pegs he drew out when he required some cider.

When Adèle entered the cellar, mug in hand, she examined the cask. She did not know which peg to take out, neither did she care to return into the kitchen with an empty vessel. She ventured cautiously to pull out one of the pins. It fitted tightly. She jerked on it. The peg came out; so did the cider. She hastily replaced the peg in its place, but the cider spurted all over her clean white pinafore. Timidly, she went back to the kitchen.

"I did not know how to——"

She did not finish. The servant perceived her plight, and, with a gesture, silenced her. She bustled her out into the vestibule, threw her a clean apron, bade her put it on, and proceeded to the cellar. She speedily caused—or thought she caused—all traces of the little girl's blunder to disappear.

When she returned, Mr. Rougeant was talking to his daughter. He was saying: "Listen, Adèle. Miss Euston's collegiate school for ladies will re-open on Tuesday next, September the 13th, at half-past two o'clock. A few boarders received."

"How would you like to go there?" he asked of his daughter; merely for form's sake, however, for he had already resolved that this would be, if possible, Adèle's future home, for some ten years at least.

"I don't know," said the little girl, placing her thumb in her mouth;—a sure sign of mingled deep-thought and puzzlement—a mode of expression which, by the bye, she was not to enjoy much longer. These gesticulations are not in harmony with boarding-school etiquette.

Her father did not make any other remark. He placed the newspaper on one side, and fell to work with his dinner.

This important piece of business having been accomplished, he started to go to town on foot.

His interview with Miss Euston resulted in Adèle being accepted as a boarder. She was to be entirely entrusted to the care of Miss Euston, and, lastly, Mr. Rougeant was to pay an annual stipend of fifty guineas.

When he came back home, Adèle's father sank in a chair. He was tired. Moreover, he was annoyed. The fifty guineas which he had promised to pay each year vexed him.

He said to himself: "This daughter of mine will run away with all the profit which I am making out of my newly-opened quarry. But, since it must be, I cannot allow myself to violate the promises made to the dying. I must try and see if I cannot save a little more than I have done lately. This servant costs me too much. I must get rid of her somehow. Another one, a French one for example, would work for four or five pounds less a year."

In this puzzled state he descended to the cellar. He had an implicit belief in cider as a general restorative. His scrutinizing glance soon detected the ravages caused by Adèle's blunder. "What a fine excuse," he mumbled—and he grinned.

He entered the parlour where Lizette was setting things to rights and demanded in an imperative and angry tone: "Who has done that mess in the cellar?"

"I did," quietly answered the servant, anxious to shield Adèle.

That fib she soon repented to have uttered.

"I give you a month's notice," said Mr. Rougeant, and he was about to disappear when Lizette, feeling that she was not required any more, and moved to the quick, turned towards her master.

"I can go now," she said.

"Well, go; so much the better."

That same evening, Maît. Jacques (Mr. Rougeant's workman) drove Lizette in the "spring cart" to her mother's cottage.

Adèle wept. Her father silenced her with a frown. "You will commence school on Tuesday next," he said.

The little girl looked at her father in surprise, and, an inward emotion completely mastering her, she recommenced crying.

"How shall I be able to speak to those English people?" she sobbed.

"You can talk English, can't you?" was her father's not over-consoling remark.

"Only—a—little."

"The person to whom I spoke is a nice lady; now, don't be silly, child."

"The little girls will laugh at me," she said, drying her tears with her pinafore.

Her father did not answer her, but sat meditatively pulling on his enormous nose.

It was nearly midnight when Adèle managed to drop to sleep.

Tuesday came. Her father drove her to town in his old phaeton. Then, taking her by the hand, he led her at No. ——, Grange. The two were ushered into a small, but prettily furnished drawing-room.

After a few moments, Mdlle. Parmier entered the room, and after having conversed in French for a few minutes with Mr. Rougeant, the latter withdrew, bidding good-bye to his daughter who watched him disappear with a dazed and stupefied air. "Is this a dream?" she thought. "Ah! would that it were." Never before had she spoken to a lady from town. She listened to hear Mdlle. Parmier's harsh voice bid her follow her, but, instead of doing so, the little French lady advanced towards her and in a gentle tone of voice (so soft, that Adèle stared at her in astonishment) said: "Miss Euston va bientôt venir. Croyez-vous, ma chère, que cette nouvelle demeure vous conviendra?"

"Oui," answered Adèle, greatly relieved that there was at least one person here who could talk in French.

Then, while the lady occupied herself with a book, Adèle was busy picturing to herself the dreadful Miss Euston. Her father had said that she was a nice lady; but, alas, how could she? Did she not speak in English? How was she going to answer her? "She will certainly laugh at my bad English," Adèle thought; and her lips moved about uneasily, and her eyes were moist.

She looked towards Mdlle. Parmier. She saw four or five ladies in a confused group; she wiped away the tears that obscured her vision.

"Ah! if this lady were head mistress?" she went on thinking. "Oh! my clothes, they are not so pretty as those which the little girls who were in the playground wore." She listened tremblingly for the sounds of approaching footsteps. How she wished that the ordeal of the first interview would be passed. She grew so excited that she