"But, but----" exclaimed Matilda. "Am I not to see you again, sweetest Margot?" "You have got to go back to school this minute. The rain is over and grandpère's automobile is waiting for you. Madame la Comtesse has written to Madame la Princesse and you will not be scolded and you will send back my clothes after they are well washed and ironed. I cannot tell you anything about Ireland for a long day yet. Go now, Matilda, and don't grovel, I beg." Matilda looked rather startled and slightly frightened. Margot danced down to her grandpère. "I have missed thee so, _ma petite_," he exclaimed. "The girl would have died, grandpère, if I had not rescued her. A flash of lightning would have taken her up to heaven as Elijah was taken up." "I know not that story," said grandpère. "Ah, well, grandpère, thou art a little ignorant in some things, but never mind, I want to ask thee a question." "Ask away, my cabbage, my fledgling," said the old man. "I want to suppose a bit," said Margot. "Suppose away, then, _ma petite_." "There was a little girl and she did wrong," said Margot. "It's all suppose, don't forget that, grandpère." "I'm not forgetting," said grandpère. "She did wrong, a deep, terrible wrong," continued Margot, "and there came to her a sorrow which was great, which was severe. Her conscience pricked her. For behold, understand, she was a Protestant and could not confide in one of thy Catholic Church. Then it occurred to her that she might make reparation for her wrong and do something that she most badly hated, and so set her pricked conscience at rest. Dost thou think, if she did that thing, that the great God would forgive her, grandpère?" "I am certain of it, _ma petite_. I am as sure as that I am a very old man and that thou art my best _chérie_. But now, let's talk of something cheerful. What does it matter to thee, _petite_, how wrong others are if thou thyself art free?" "Nothing at all, grandpère, dear grandpère." "Then make me laugh, my little pigeon. Turn to the merry things of life. We of the French nation are always cheerful. That is why we live so long. The gloom, it kills us, but the sunshine, behold, it gives us life. Be my sunshine now, _ma petite_. See, behold, make thy old grandpère laugh. It is all right and good and as it should be. Ah, my little one, but I love thee well!" "And I love thee, grandpère, but not as well as The Desmond. Thou dost not mind?" "I could kill The Desmond," said grandpère. Margot burst into a peal of laughter. "Indeed, but thou couldst not," she remarked. "Thou hast not got his height nor his strength and thou art older. I see the age in thy sunken eyes. Now I will tell thee a story _très drôle_." Little Margot told her story and Madame la Comtesse listened to the childish laughter and the clear, happy, childish voice, and said to herself that there never was anybody before quite so sweet as little Margot. She must get that little conscience to prick no more.