I wondered what the children at home would have said to such a supper. A few cabbage leaves made the soup, and this, with the dry black bread and a sip of sour wine, was all they had. There were no plates or bowls, but little hollow places in the heavy wooden table near the edge, and into these fixed cups Marie ladled the soup, giving each a wooden spoon from a queer rack in the middle; the kettle stood at one end, the big loaf lay at the other, and all stood round eating out of their little troughs, with Nannette and a rough dog close by to receive any crusts that might be left. Presently the mother came in, a true Breton woman; rosy and robust, neat and cheery, though her poor clothes were patched all over, her hands more rough and worn with hard work than any I ever saw, and the fine hair under her picturesque cap gray at thirty with much care. I saw then where Marie got the brightness that seemed to shine in every feature of her little face, for the mother's coming was like a ray of sunshine in that dark place, and she had a friendly word and look for every one. Our little arrangement was soon made, and we left them all smiling and nodding as if the few francs we were to pay would be a fortune to them. Early next morning we were wakened by Francoise, the maid, who came up to announce that the goat's milk had arrived. Then we heard a queer, quick, tapping sound on the stairs, and to our great amusement, Nannette walked into the room, straight up to my bedside, and stood there looking at me with her mild yellow eyes as if she was quite used to seeing night-caps. Marie followed with a pretty little bowl in her hand, and said, laughing at our surprise, 'See, dear mademoiselle; in this way I make sure that the milk is quite fresh and warm;' and kneeling down, she milked the bowl full in a twinkling, while Nannette quietly chewed her cud and sniffed at a plate of rolls on the table. The warm draught was delicious, and we drank each our portion with much merriment. 'It is our custom,' said Francoise; who stood by with her arms folded, and looked on in a lofty manner. 'What had you for your own breakfast?' I asked, as I caught Marie's eye hungrily fixed on the rolls and some tempting little cakes of chocolate left from our lunch the day before. 'My good bread, as usual, mademoiselle, also sorrel salad and--and water,' answered Marie, as if trying to make the most of her scanty meal. 'Will you eat the rolls and put the chocolate in your pocket to nibble at school? You must be tired with this long walk so early.' She hesitated, but could not resist; and said in a low tone, as she held the bread in her hand without eating it,-- 'Would mademoiselle be angry if I took it to Bebe? She has never tasted the beautiful white bread, and it would please her much.'