"You will be comfortable here, my little girl?" said Sylvie. "Oh, it's beautiful!" said the child, in her silvery voice. "She's not difficult to please," muttered the stout servant. "Sha'n't I warm her bed?" she asked. "Yes," said Sylvie, "the sheets may be damp." Adele brought one of her own night-caps when she returned with the warming-pan, and Pierrette, who had never slept in anything but the coarsest linen sheets, was amazed at the fineness and softness of the cotton ones. When she was fairly in bed and tucked up, Adele, going downstairs with Sylvie, could not refrain from saying, "All she has isn't worth three francs, mademoiselle." Ever since her economical regime began, Sylvie had compelled the maid to sit in the dining-room so that one fire and one lamp could do for all; except when Colonel Gouraud and Vinet came, on which occasions Adele was sent to the kitchen. Pierrette's arrival enlivened the rest of the evening. "We must get her some clothes to-morrow," said Sylvie; "she has absolutely nothing." "No shoes but those she had on, which weigh a pound," said Adele. "That's always so, in their part of the country," remarked Rogron. "How she looked at her room! though it really isn't handsome enough for a cousin of yours, mademoiselle." "It is good enough; hold your tongue," said Sylvie. "Gracious, what chemises! coarse enough to scratch her skin off; not a thing can she use here," said Adele, emptying the bundle. Master, mistress, and servant were busy till past ten o'clock, deciding what cambric they should buy for the new chemises, how many pairs of stockings, how many under-petticoats, and what material, and in reckoning up the whole cost of Pierrette's outfit. "You won't get off under three hundred francs," said Rogron, who could remember the different prices, and add them up from his former shop-keeping habit. "Three hundred francs!" cried Sylvie. "Yes, three hundred. Add it up." The brother and sister went over the calculation once more, and found the cost would be fully three hundred francs, not counting the making. "Three hundred francs at one stroke!" said Sylvie to herself as she got into bed. * * * * *