The Miss Barlieus received us graciously, giving us all the same friendly greeting that the old teacher had given only to Miss Chandos. Two pleasant, kind-hearted maiden ladies were they, not very young. Miss Annette confessed to having passed thirty-five. We were their visitors that evening, and were regaled with nice things in their own parlour. I said I would relate the mode of treatment in that school. It was a superior establishment, the terms high _for France_; but they were not much more than half the amount of Miss Fenton's. Here they included the month's holiday at autumn. At Miss Fenton's the holidays were three months in the year; and if you stayed (as I did), extra money had to be paid. The dormitories were spacious and airy, a small, separate, thoroughly clean bed being given to each pupil. No French school can be overcrowded, for they are under the close inspection of the Government; and the number of pupils to be taken is registered. A large airy room is set apart as an infirmary, should any fall sick. Clang! clang! clang! went the great bell in the morning, waking us out of our sleep at six. Dressing, practising, lessons, and prayers, occupied the time until eight. Miss Johnstone read prayers to the English pupils, all Protestants; Mademoiselle Caroline read them to the French, who were Roman Catholics. For breakfast there was as much bread-and-butter as we liked to eat, and a small basin each of good rich milk. Some of the English girls chose tea in preference, which they were at liberty to do. On Sunday morning's the breakfast was a treat: coffee and _petits pains_, a sort of roll. We had them hot, two each, and a small pat of butter. Such coffee as that we never get in England: one-third coffee, two-thirds hot milk, and strong then. Breakfast over (to go back to the week days), we played till nine, and then came studies until twelve. The professed dinner hour was half-past twelve, but the cook rarely sent in before a quarter to one. We all dined together with Miss Barlieu and Miss Annette, at two long tables. I remember the dinner, that first day, as well as though I had eaten it yesterday. A plateful of soup first, very poor, as all French soup is; after that the bouilli, the meat that the soup is made of. The English at first never like this bouilli, but in time they learn to know how good it is, eaten with the French piquante mustard. Sometimes carrots were served with the bouilli, sometimes small pickled cucumbers: this day we had cucumbers. Remembering Miss Fenton's, I wondered if that comprised the dinner—and, talking of Miss Fenton's, I have never mentioned that in her house we were not allowed bread at dinner; here, if we could have eaten a whole loaf, we might have had it.