"No, dear, you wouldn't," I said. "You couldn't talk as a lady, you wouldn't know any history or geography, or know how to speak French or German, or be able to read nice books, or do any of the things which are going to be very nice, but which perhaps are not very nice just at the beginning." "I should know what Burbidge knows," replied Bess, stoutly; "besides which," she added, "dogs don't know French, and no dates, and yet papa doesn't call them ignorant." And then my little maid turned with a scarlet face, and feeling perhaps a little worsted in the argument said, "Mama, let me scurry off for your maid." [Sidenote: BESS ON EDUCATION] A moment later Bess returned in company with Célestine, my French maid. Célestine entered like a whirlwind; she was sure that "Madame se fatigue." "With one cold in de head un repos absolu is necessary," she declared. However, when she saw the flowers, and I explained that they came from "la belle France," she affirmed "que tout allait bien," and was mollified. She brought me water and some vases, and Bess and I proceeded to sort out the beautiful Neapolitan violets and snip the ends of the rose and carnation stalks. "I like cutting," cried Bess, eagerly. "It's doing something, Burbidge says," and just now the gardener is my little daughter's hero, and Burbidge's reasons for everything in her eyes rule the universe. I like to think of the poor stalks in water, I said; they are so thirsty, like poor tired men who have travelled over sandy deserts. Then I asked Célestine to hand me some water, and begged her to let it be tepid and to add a few drops of eau-de-Cologne in each glass. "Madame will spoil the rose and the carnation, his own smell is all that is needed," answered my waiting-woman severely. But I begged her to comply with my request, for I wanted my dear friend's gifts to live in water as long as possible, and to revive quickly.