"It is very rude to interrupt, Marie. No sound but the _Miserere_ would ever have broken the chill echoes of my lonely cell, nor should any raiment softer than sackcloth have come near my seared and blighted heart!" "I should think it would get seared, with nothing but sackcloth," put in the irrepressible little Lady of Eu. "But what good would all that do, Eva?" "Good, Beatrice! What canst thou mean? I tell thee, I could not have borne any thing else." "I don't believe much in thy sackcloth, Eva. Thou wert making ever such a fuss the other day because the serge of thy gown touched thy neck and rubbed it, and Levina ran a ribbon down to keep it off thee." "Don't be impertinent, Marie. Of course, in such a case as that, I could not think of mere inconveniences." "Well, if I could not think of inconveniences when I was miserable, I would try to make less fuss over them when I was happy." "I am not happy, foolish child." "Why, what's the matter? Did Sir William look at thee only twenty-nine times, instead of thirty, when he was here?" "Thou art the silliest maiden of whom any one ever heard!" "No, Eva; her match might be found, I think," said Beatrice. Marie went off into convulsions of laughter, and flung herself on the rushes to enjoy it with more freedom. "I wonder which of you two is the funnier!" said she. "What on earth is there comical about _me_?" exclaimed Eva, the more put out because Beatrice and Doucebelle were both joining in Marie's amusement. "It is of no use to tell thee, Eva," replied Beatrice; "thou wouldst not be able to see it." "Can't I see any thing you can?" demanded Eva, irritably. "Why, no!" said Marie, with a fresh burst: "canst thou see thine own face?" "What a silly child, to make such a speech as that!" "No, Eva," said Beatrice, trying to stifle her laughter, increased by Marie's witticism: "the child is any thing but silly." "Well, I think you are all very silly, and I shall not talk to you any more," retorted Eva, endeavouring to cover her retreat; but she was answered only by a third explosion from Marie. Half an hour later, the Countess, entering her bed-chamber, was startled to find a girl crouched down by the side of the bed, her face hidden in the coverlet, and her sunny cedar hair flowing over it in disorder. "Why, what--Magot! my darling Magot! what aileth thee, my white dove?" Margaret lifted her head when her mother spoke. She had not been shedding tears. Perhaps she might have looked less terribly wan and woeful if she had done so. "Pardon me, Lady! I came here to be alone." The Countess sat down in the low curule chair beside her bed, and drew her daughter close. Margaret laid her head, with a weary sigh, on her mother's knee, and cowered down again at her feet. "And what made thee wish to be alone, my rosebud?" "Something that somebody said." "Has any one been speaking unkindly to my little one?"