"Then I think I'll wait a little," replied Bess, with composure, "before I change; for I should not like a crown after losing my teeth, or worse, or even jam-rolly, if I had to take tumblers of horrid physic first. And I have heard Burbidge say that, 'them as wins a crown must walk on hot ploughshares first.' Still," she added, "I should sometimes like to be good." "How about doing disagreeable things, Bess? For I fear, at first, that is what has to be done." "Well, mama," answered Bess, "not too good; not good enough to die, but just good enough to get a little more money for good marks than I have ever got before." And I saw by Bess's saucy smile that the day was a long, long way off when she would ever be what she calls very, very good, _i.e._-- Never dirty her hands; Never ruffle her hair; and Never answer back those in authority. For a moment we ceased talking, and looked at the old carved stone basin in which the successors of Roger de Montgomery's Clugniac monks bathed in the twelfth century. On the broken shaft which supported the basin are three carved panels; one represents the miraculous draught of fishes and the other two St. Paul and St. Peter. Bess shook her head and repeated sadly, "Of course I should like to be a saint, but there must not be too much pain. It isn't fair of God to want _too much_." Then we wandered round to the east side of the old house, and I looked up and pointed out to Bess the old stone gargoyles. And Bess looked too. "Those," she said, "are Christian devils. Nana says we never could get on here without a Devil, and the monks had theirs too." There are many times in life, I find, when it is wiser not to answer a child, and this was just one. Strong light often dazzles, and, after all, are we not all children groping in the dark? We peeped into the kitchen from outside, and saw the coppers glimmering like red gold on the shelves of the old oak dresser. Auguste, the cook, was chopping some meat, and the blows he gave resounded merrily through the crisp frosty air. I called through the mullion window and asked if the little soiled suit of yesterday was dry, as Fred the groom was to ride over to Hawkmoor and take it there in the afternoon. "Oui, madame la comtesse," cried Auguste, for by that title he always addressed me; not that I have a title, but that Auguste thinks it kind and polite so to address me. Besides, he has a confused belief that every English woman has a title of some kind, and that its exact nature is immaterial. As he spoke he opened the little oak door that communicates with the garden and exclaimed joyously-- [Sidenote: AUGUSTE'S SECRET]