and the sight of the happy children at
their play, as well as of their charming
mammas so tastefully and freshly dressed;
and of their neat bonnes in the snow-white
aprons and picturesque caps—the tall ones
from Normandy, the great frilled night
extinguishers from Picardy, the natty little
worked caps thoroughly Parisian! There
she sits, ready to chat with the friends and
acquaintances who come up now and then
to pay their morning calls, until presently,
when the sun is getting hot, and people
are bent homeward to luncheon, and to
dress, she can pack up the tiny basket, walk
away, and turn into the Marché de la
Madeleine, or any other market that is handy,
where with a few sous, she may buy the
most extravagant of feasts, in the shape of the
best melon in the world, the most delicious
peaches that are grown in Europe, or the
sweetest grapes of Fontainebleau. Then,
after reading for half an hour or so, she may
go to the Louvre perhaps, or call on friends,
who in the evening will share a stroll in the
Champs Elysées, or go with her to the Opéra
Comique.

After a day like that, any one goes to bed
feeling very light, airy, and easy, both in mind
and stomach, and wondering how so much
amusement was got with so little money: so
much contentment with so little beef. The
people I knew when at Madame Grondet's
school were chiefly the friends of some of my
schoolfellows. First, there was Clémence
Grandpré, and I knew her father. He lived
properly in Brittany, but came to Paris for
her holidays, because he was a widower, and
had but that one daughter and a son. The
son was a sad scapegrace; he had been in the
army,—but where or what he was at that time
nobody knew; but Clémence made up for
his evil by her good. She was a beautiful
and gentle girl, and she loved and admired
her father just as intensely as he loved
and admired her. The support and care
they tendered to each other was most
beautiful and touching to behold; it was
one of the best pleasures of my holidays to
see them both together, and to be with
them. The father was an ancient officer of
Napoleon's—a fine old soldier, with snow-white
beard and moustache, who never spoke
to a lady but with uncovered head, and who
behaved to every one whom he addressed as
if he were a prince speaking to a king or
queen. I was a little schoolgirl when I first
met this brave gentleman, and I put out my
hand in the English way for him to shake.
He did not understand that rough familiar
fashion, and placing his hand beneath
mine, gravely bent down his tall height
until he touched it with his white
moustache. My notions of propriety were
quite disordered by this homage from an
old man to a child, and yet at the moment
I felt not that I was a child,—I was a
duchess, or the Empress Josephine. Even
when we knew him more familiarly, M.
Grandpré was still the same; and to his
daughter he showed always the same
chivalrous, gentle, attentive manner. I fancy
I still hear them addressing one another in
their quiet, loving way, as "mon père," and
"ma fille." " Mon père, you are silent; do
you wish for anything?" or, "Ma fille, where
would you like to go to day,—shall it be
Versailles?" The last time we were together
was long years ago, in the private garden of
the Tuileries. Louis-Philippe sat on the
central balcony of the Palace, with the little
Count of Paris on his knees, pretending to
beat time with his foot to the music of the
Marseillaise that a military band was playing.
It was evening, and through the deepening
twilight, crowds of people passed, liked the
indistinct forms of a confused dream; there
was a sound of plashing fountains, and of
many voices, and of the tread of many feet,
but Clémence and her father knew it not; they
were walking arm and arm together a little
apart from us, earnestly conversing; for then
Clémence had just left school for good, and he
had come to take her to their home in Brittany.
Thither they went next day; and there her
cousin, Alphonse de Villeneuve, worked and
waited seven years for her; after which they
were married. But not even then would
Clémence leave her father; she fondly tended
him to the last, and he died in her arms. A
little son had by that time come to take his
place in her warm heart. The death of this
old gentleman was announced to us last year,
in the French way. We received a large
black-edged paper, directed to my uncle, as
"Monsieur Ward, Esquire," and within it
we read (in French, of course):

Monsieur Ward,—
Monsieur Charles Grandpré, and Mons. and Mad.
de Villeneuve, have the grief of informing you of the
loss they have suffered in the person of their father,
and father-in-law, Monsieur Jules-Marie-Jean Grandpré,
widower of Dame Camille-Marie-Louise-Annette-
Mélinie de Montuille, retired major of cavalry, officer
of the Legion of Honour, knight of St. Louis, ancient
commander of the National Guard, ancient municipal
councillor, and ancient member of the commission
for the administration of the hospitals of the Commune
d' Arles; who died on the 10th of November, at half-
past seven o'clock in the evening, aged seventy-nine
years; having received the sacraments of Our Mother
the Holy Church.
They commend him to your prayers.

How different this from the laconic Scottish
Highland fashion of announcing a death.
There you receive a monstrous open paper,
bearing, perhaps, in large letters, the words:

"Mac Ivor is dead."

If you don't happen to know who Mac
Ivor was when he was alive, the effect of
this missive is absurd; if you do, it may be
grand and impressive. I am not quite sure
about it. It seems to depend a good deal
upon Mac Ivor.

Another of my schoolfellows was Marie