"My darling, we must all fit ourselves for the position that Providence assigns," remarked good John Mansfield, and then they reached the great station and found themselves in the stately town, for Arles is very south and very warm and exceedingly picturesque. Mansfield made enquiries and discovered that a carriage was waiting for _la petite_ Comtesse. Into this the little Margot stepped. John Mansfield followed her. The ugly brown trunk was placed beside the coachman, and they drove in the direction of the château, which was quite a mile outside the town of Arles. They found Madame la Comtesse waiting to greet them. She wore a most wonderful dress, which she considered according to her own ideas, _le juste milieu_. On her head was a chapeau, which consisted mostly of large violets. Her dress was pale green, with a _triste_ little bow of black just under the chin. She bounded down the steps and clasped _la petite_ Comtesse in her arms. "I am thy _belle_ grand'mère," she said. "My pigeon, my little cabbage, look at me, I am thy _belle_ grand'mère in very truth." "But you are young," said Margot. "My Irish grandmother is beautiful and old." "Ah, but never mind, little strange one, it cannot be helped. The Irish grand'mère is old--the French grand'mère is young, _très bien_. Come with me and I will introduce thee to thy grandpère--eh, but he has got the years and well do they suit _mon_ Alphonse. Thy grandpère is adorable, my little cabbage." The French grandpère was certainly very different from the Irish grandfather, and little Margot looked at him out of her soft black eyes with a puzzled mingling of admiration and surprise. "Ah, but thou art indeed come, _mon enfant_!" The old Comte reclined just as of old, on his down pillows. He was covered just as he was a week past with a soft crimson plush coverlet. He looked anxiously out of his sunken black eyes into the soft black eyes of _la petite_ Comtesse. "Thou art here--thou art my own, thou wast born of my Henri. Kiss me, little one, press thy rosy lips on mine." Little Margot did what she was told. "My grandfather of Ireland," she said, "is much bigger than you, grandfather of France. You will not perhaps live very long." "Ah, but _mon enfant_, don't say anything so shocking. _Fi donc, fi donc_," exclaimed the little Comtesse, bending over her beloved Alphonse and kissing him passionately, then she turned to the child. "_A la bonne heure_," she cried, "thou shalt have a _dot_ that will astonish thee, and the notary has come and he will make out the amount that was promised M. Mansfield, of the English Church." "I wish to say one thing," remarked John Mansfield. "This is the sixth of June, I will return for the child on the sixth of September, but during that time I wish her to learn." "_Ah, oui, m'sieur, certainement!_ What would you wish _la petite_ Comtesse to acquire?"