Marguerite blushed till she looked a thousand
times prettier than before, and Ange felt
happy and proud of her. Marguerite
advanced before the young Count, and he spoke
very kindly to her, and placed the crown gently
on her head, and told her that, as he had put
the crown upon her fair young head and made
her queen, she must try more than ever to be
virtuous and good.

One of the handsome ladies came forward,
and said: "My name is the Marquise de Belle
Isle, and you must keep this for my sake."
While she was saying this, she tied round
Marguerite's neck a piece of black velvet, to
which was attached a beautiful gold cross.
The other lady, who was much younger, and
very lovely, gave Marguerite a bright cerise-
coloured little purse, and said: "My name is
Mademoiselle de Bruntière, and you must
keep this for remembrance of me."
Marguerite curtsied, and thanked them very
much, and returned to her companions; and
they all crowded round her to see the
beautiful wreath, and cross, and purse, and hear
all that had been said to her.

Then, in the soft twilight, each returned to
his home, bearing bouquets of wild spring
flowers from the woods, and the nightingales
sang in the soft evening air, and there was
a still sweeter murmur of happy voices as
they passed through the lanes.

CHAPTER V.

BUT the prosperity of the little family was
destined not to be of long duration.
Something occurred which promised to break up
all their peaceful happiness. Ange was drawn
for the conscription.

On the evening of that dreadful day, Ange,
with a heavy heart, came to see Marguerite,
and acquaint her with the misfortune that
had befallen them; the tears flowed silently
down Marguerite's pale face, and Ange could
find no words to comfort her as they stood
together in the twilight, in the porch, and the
old sign of the Bell swung drearily to and
fro before them. Long it was, before Ange
could tear himself away that night, and
wearily and drearily poor Marguerite entered the
house, after she had watched Ange down the
street, and seen his figure grow less and less
in the dusk of the evening. Then Marguerite
retired to her own little room, and threw
herself on her bed, and cried as though her
heart would break. Then she sat up, and
thought.

There was a way to set free Ange, but then
that way seemed itself an impossibility.
Blanche's husband had been drawn, had been
bought off; but, to do that for Ange
Marguerite must possess twenty louis—and
that seemed perfectly impossible—poor
Marguerrite's wages were only ten crowns a-year,
and that was just two louis and a half, then
there were the four sous that had been given
to Marguerite in the little purse; and the
bright golden louis the young Count had
thrown from the window, all of which
Madelaine had in keeping for her. Then Marguerite
thought of her ear-rings and cross, and
wondered how much they were worth, the ear-
rings dear Auge had given her, and Marguerite
kissed them for his sake; and with all
this woe weighing upon her mind, poor
Marguerite went to bed, and fell asleep, murmuring
Twenty louis—Twenty louis!

The next day, as she was dressing herself
Marguerite remembered how Angelique, the
daughter of Farmer Bouset, had admired her
ear-rings—how she had said they were the
prettiest she had ever seen, and that she
should try and get a pair like them. Yes,
certainly, Angelique would buy the ear-rings,
and, perhaps, the cross, too; for he was a rich
man, Farmer Bouset, and very fond of
Angelique. So Marguerite asked Dame Ponsard's
leave to go out for the day; and she would
not say a word about it to Madelaine or Ange,
for fear he should try and prevent her selling
the ear-rings. Marguerite put on her cloak
and hood, and tied up her ear-rings and
cross in her handkerchief, and she then, with,
a heavy heart, took her way to Farmer
Bouset's, quite alone.

It was a long, long way, up hill and down
dale, but a very beautiful road. The morning
was fresh, and clear, and everything in
nature looked very lovely with its young
spring dress; and there were wild lilies and
violets, and primroses, on either side of the
road, and the birds sang very sweetly; but
Marguerite took no heed of all these beauties
now; and the birds' songs did not
seem for her, and the flowers looked faded
in her eyes, for the thought that Ange was
going to leave them had taken all beauty
from everything.

And when Marguerite reached the top of
the last hill she felt very hot and weary, and
so sat down on the soft grass, mixed with wild
thyme, and heather, to rest; and the wild
ferns grew so tall around her, that they almost
made a shade; and then Marguerite untied
her handkerchief, in which were the ear-rings
and the cross, to look at them as her own, for
the last time. And, as she sat there,
Marguerite grew very thirsty, and then she
bethought her of a little mountain-rill, which
came out of a rock close by, that was celebrated
for its delicious water, and so Marguerite put
the handkerchief down, with her ear-rings
upon it—in a conspicuous spot, where she
should be sure to see it again in a moment—
and then she ran to get the water; and the
wind was so great that it almost blew
Marguerite's petticoat over her head, as she
stooped to catch the water in her hands; and
it had made Marguerite's hair quite rough,
so she stood for a moment to smooth it with
her wet hands, that she might not look untidy
when she arrived at the farm.

But when Marguerite returned to the spot
where she thought she had left her handkerchief,