for Emilie was at Marseilles as governess
with Madame de Lamotte.

Marie had never been a favourite with her
father. On the contrary, he disliked her.
Emilie was a mild, gentle, tractable creature,
the model "little lady," who would sit good
for hours without stirring; and who, with a
piece of embroidery or a book, would neither
distract nor seek for distraction: while
Marie, all life, animation, vehemence and
restlessness, was like a caged hawk or clogged
zebra when set to any still employment, or
obliged to be quiet and well-bred. Her
father used to punish her by making her sit
on a chair near the door, sometimes for two
hours, sometimes for three; and Marie's
frantic paroxysms during the time were a
little like madness. They used to frighten
Mr. Maconnell sometimes; then, the rest of
the sentence would be remitted, and another
punishment substituted; but Marie took
nothing to heart so deeply as this torture of
the chair near the door. She was the prettier
of the two sisters; but her large black eyes
and long thick raven hair worked no spell on
her father, who was never kind to her, and
was sometimes really brutal. She teased him.
She drove him nearly mad, and made him
wish she was dead. Her wildness and restlessness
were perpetual tortures to him—the
stern cold man of secret passions and unexceptionable
appearances—and her innocence
and frankness nearly destroyed his reputation
more than once. Marie was one of those
terrible people who see everything, understand
nothing, and speak of all; one, moreover,
who practically apply the moral lessons they
have received, and cannot seize the distinction
between theoretical and convenient virtues.
Anything which Mr. Maconnell wished
to conceal—and there was much to conceal in
his Parisian life—Marie was sure to discover ,
and sure to publish, as innocently as a baby;
not dreaming of the possibility of wrong, and
detailing the most compromising circumstances
as if she had been giving the recipe
for a pudding. Miss Henrietta, their
governess, was obliged to leave after a time,
owing to Marie's mentioning such terrible
facts, that their neighbours of the Quartier
Saint Honoré were scandalised at the English
father's want of "convenance." Marie never
knew why her father beat her and called her
a viper. Marie flung herself on her knees
and asked pardon both of her father and of
the governess; but as ignorantly as she had
given offence, blundering through her sobs.
She kept her sister awake all night, trying
to find out what she had said that was wrong.
Emilie at last told her, yawning, that she
talked too much, and had better go to sleep.
The next governess had managed better. She
used to lock up Marie, as she would some
dangerous animal. Consequently, those big
black eyes saw nothing, and Madame Certost
kept her place a long time. But then she was
a French woman and very discreet.

Yet in spite of all this physical wildness,
and energy of temperament, Marie was timid,
shy, and loving; requiring indulgence and
encouragement—guidance also, certainly. She
was unfitted, above all things, for her
father's harsh discipline. She was inquisitive
because she was restless and unemployed,
not because she was sly: frank because she
was guileless, not because she was bold:
she told all she knew because she never
dreamt of evil, and could not understand the
value of caution; for she could not understand
the necessity of concealment. She
desired ardently to be loved, and she lived
under a ban; she desired earnestly to be
good, and she was met by condemnation. Her
younger sister was held up before her as her
model, and was warned against her example.
Blindly searching to know her sins, and in
that search committing them, poor little Marie
often wished that she was dead, and wondered
how such a monster as herself was
suffered to live.

From this unhealthy state, Marie, having
completed her education at home, was sent
to Madame Dupuy, as governess to her
youngest child. Her first step of comparative
freedom.

Madame Dupuy was a very fascinating
woman; not pretty, but graceful and exceedingly
well-bred. Rather too lithe perhaps
in her gestures, and too flattering in her
manners. Her morals were strict, and her
ideas of female propriety exalted; yet her
power of extracting confidence was something
wonderful; for few who knew her had not
made her the depository of their most
dangerous secrets. But at heart, she was
cold and selfish, and never made a step in
life without forecast and calculation: her
own advantage was her only measure. Still,
with her sweet manners, prudent principles,
and great powers of attachment, she
was an admirable person to take charge of
Marie: and she promised Mr. Maconnell to
reform her. Poor Marie! it was little enough
of reformation that the heedless, innocent
child needed.

Madame Dupuy kept her word. She
worked a kind of miracle with the girl, and
changed her into another creature. For
the first time in her life, Marie heard the
voice of affection and respect. For the first
time, she was treated with indulgence; her
nature was understood. Madame Dupuy
played her part to perfection, and won all
she played for. Conquered by love, Marie
became her slave, and poured out the riches
of her loving heart prodigally. She would
have undergone an arduous self-discussion
before refusing to commit a crime on Madame
Dupuy's order; so nearly had she merged
the landmarks of right and wrong in her
wishes. How happy she was! No one, but a
girl unloved at home, could rightly understand
the excess of Marie's passionate happiness
under the gentle treatment of her