solitary servant has grey hair, because it is as
well that a scandalous public should learn
that M. le Curé is not allowed to keep any
female servant under forty years of age.

M. le Curé is attending to his school when
I arrive, but I am informed, in a patois that
rings homely and pleasant on the ear, that he
will return in about a quarter of an hour, and
I am shewn into his room meanwhile. There
are no nice easy reading-chairs; no snug
sofas; no tea and toast air about the place.
It contains but two hard wooden chairs,
a painted deal writing table worn white at
the edges by the rubbing of M. le Curé's
serge gown against it, a bed, three drawers
with brass fittings, a clock, and a small
(too small) book-shelf. On the writing table
is a manuscript which looks like a half finished
sermon, and from which I turn away my eyes
respectfully.

With M. le Curé's books, however, it is a
different question, and not knowing what to
do with myself till he comes, I pass my time
in trifling with their leaves. Let us see, what
have we here? "Reports of the Society for
the Propagation of the Faith." Very good;
and here—"Statistics of Crime in the
Provinces;" better still. Here is an illuminated
Missal, evidently prized highly by its owner,
and doubtless the work of many a lonely hour
of the quaint-minded imaginative old monk
who spent his time over it. What a record
of time wasted, yet what volumes of thought
and poetry we can puzzle out; sometimes
veiled, and but thinly veiled after all, in those
odd devices and uncouth figures! What
smothered satire, what keen, strong, human
feelings that could find no vent but this for
their deep silent current! What sad lives of
struggle against the flesh, and battling with
a world that had too many charms!

But here comes M. le Curé himself, with
his pleasant thoughtful smile and kindly
greeting. He says, simply, he is glad to see us,
without set phrase or compliments, but we
feel that he is speaking the truth, and I am
grateful for it. He has a good deal to say for
himself, and says it pleasantly. He offers us,
also, some refreshment, which we do not take;
in the first place because we think that the
800 francs a year and promiscuous hospitality
hardly go well together, and also because we
have not long breakfasted, and do not want it.

      MA SÅ’UR, THE GOVERNESS.

MA SÅ“ur and I are great friends. She is
the nursery governess of my host's daughter;
who is a fresh little daisy of a girl some
five years old, with pretty surprised eyes, and
hair of rich French brown, and rosy cheeks,
and cherry lips which put one in mind of
summer to look at them were they not so
fresh and so cold. What a decent homely
worthy body she seems, Ma sœur, in her black
dress and snowy coal-scuttle cap that would
look so abominable on anyone else; with her
rosary round her neck, her busy hands always
at some task, yet always so clean and nicely
kept. I could fall in love with Ma sœur if
we were both twenty years younger; and if I
were a little boy under her care I should love
her very dearly. Any other love, Ma sœur
is not exactly the sort of person to inspire or
to feel; although who knows what a deep
romance, what a wealth of broken hopes those
quiet hearts often conceal?

Ma sœur may be forty or perhaps forty-five,
but time has dealt kindly with her, and she
has one of the most beautiful and healthy
complexions I ever saw. I am sure Ma sœur has
a good conscience, though I have not known
her a week. Her clear blue eye, calm and
well opened, a pleasant tone of decision in her
voice (as if she always knew the right thing
to do and no consideration would make her
do the wrong one), convince me of this.
I should say that Ma sœur would be the
very providence of a sick bed: so active,
so quiet, so watchful, so full of resolute
common sense.

Ma sœur dines and breakfasts with us, and
at other times retires into the nursery—a
pleasant room, with a fine prospect over river
and woodland—where she can hear the birds
sing and can scent the odour of the flowers
through the open window in summer-time;
while double casements keep out the cold in
winter, and give an agreeable air of warmth
and comfort to the room. She is always
cheerful and unembarrassed, let us come in
when we will; and although the room is
tolerably full of furniture, and has by no
means the usual appearance of that bare
prison with bars to the windows which is
called a nursery in England; and though she
has the charge of as merry a little romp as may
be, I do not remember ever to have seen a chair
that did not seem well placed, or a curtain torn.

The fact is Ma sœur respects herself:
she knows her position in the family is one
generally esteemed and looked up to. She
considers therefore, I'll be bound, that it is
part of her duty to support its credit, and
would not have her room caught in disarray
by Monsieur le Comte or his guests on any
account. She does not, therefore, straighten
her waist and play with her chatelaine like a
heroine of romance under unfavorable
circumstances—as I have seen some young ladies'
governesses do—perhaps because she has
neither waist nor chatelaine visible to the eye;
neither does she scuttle into the next room
pushing her charge before her and leaving part
of her dress as the door slams behind her,
because she has a wrinkled stocking, and the
child has not had its hair "done." She does
not bristle up like a porcupine—all accidence
of grammar, and 'ology—and wonder why
strangers are brought into the nursery; but
Ma sœur gets up when we come in and smiles
pleasantly, thanks us for our visit.
Mademoiselle is caught up in papa's arms—the
strong man and the little child a pretty picture,
he clinging to her as the very hope that