The landlady turned as she touched the earth, and held out her two stout arms, as if Marguerite had been an infant who claimed her help. But the young girl scarcely touched the kindly offered arms. She sprang to the earth in breathless haste, white to the lips, trembling in every limb. Her friend gave a nod of encouragement, over her shoulder, and led the way toward the cottage. A beautiful woman came to the door, and looked out; a merry laugh was on her lips; her large eyes were bright as sunshine. A dress of brown stuff, looped up from a blue underskirt of the same material, gave piquancy and grace to a figure, which had the rare beauty of perfect womanhood. A dainty little cap was tied over an abundance of rich brown hair, in which there seemed to be a slight grey tinge; but, on a closer view, this tinge was produced by traces of powder, which could not be entirely brushed from tresses so habitually accustomed to its use. The lady spoke a few words, still laughing, to some one within the cottage; then two or three other faces crowded into the background, and bright eyes glowed out upon the portly figure of Dame Tillery, as she came up the walk, almost concealing the slight figure of Marguerite, who came trembling behind her. The women of France were a brave, outspoken class even when they came in contact with all the exclusiveness of a court. When the people and the nobility met, face to face, honest truths were often spoken, which could not have been palatable to king or courtier. Of this fearless class, Dame Tillery was a superior specimen. She walked with something like dignity, toward the cottage; the heavy shawl folded over her ample bosom neither rose nor fell, with a quickened breath: a bland smile was on her face. She was pleased to be summoned, but in no way embarrassed. “My queen!” said the Dame, addressing the lady in the door-way, “you have sent for me, and I have come.” Dame Tillery looked at the white hand, which lay in beautiful relief against the brown dress, as if she longed to kiss it. Marie Antoinette smiled, and held out her hand, about which the sweet smell of milk still lingered. “Ah, dame! we are in sad trouble,” she said, laughing pleasantly. “The cream is obstinate to-day, or we are sadly ignorant. It is delightful to see how helpless we all are. Here is Madame Campan breaking her heart.” “If your highness permit——” “Nay, dame, there is no highness here, remember. All that is left behind, at Versailles. It is only a company of dairy-women, more ignorant of their business than is proper. As a dame of experience we have sent for you.” “Yes, your—That is, certainly; I have some experience.” “And discretion,” rejoined Marie Antoinette, looking anxious for the moment, and scanning Dame Tillery’s face with a clear, keen glance, with which the queen sometimes examined those who approached her. “And discretion, if that means silence,” answered the dame.