My mother blew the silver whistle which always lay beside her, and Mistress Grace entered from the anteroom. She was a tall, thin personage, English to the backbone. I never saw a plainer woman in my life, but there was that in her face which at once attracted confidence and regard. She was my mother's special attendant, and ruled the household as her vicegerent with great skill and firmness. The servants called her Mamselle Grace, or, more commonly, simply Mamselle, and treated her with great respect, though they sometimes laughed at her English French after her back was turned. I was taught to call her Mrs. Grace, in English fashion. I was greatly in awe of her at first, but I soon learned to love her as well as Mother Jeanne herself. Mrs. Grace greeted me with prim courtesy. "We must take orders for some dresses for our young lady, Grace," said my mother, speaking French. "Will you see what we have for her?" Mrs. Grace opened an armoire, from which she drew a quantity of stuffs and silks, and an animated conversation ensued. My mother kindly allowed me to choose what I liked best, and we were in the full tide of discussion, when there was a knock at the door, and my father entered with a very disturbed face, which brightened as he met my mother's glance. "Heyday, what have we here?" said he. "Has Mrs. Grace taken a new doll to dress?" "This is our little one, Armand," said my mother. "I have taken her home, judging that it is time to complete her education, and also for a companion." "That is well," said he. "Come hither, my little one, and see thy father." I approached timidly, bent my knee, and kissed the hand he held out to me. He laid the other on my head and solemnly gave me his blessing. Then, holding me off and looking at me: "Why, 'tis a true Corbet," said he; "the very image of thy mother, dearest Margaret." Then with a sudden change of tone, "I only wish she and thou were safe in the dear old mother's wing, the gray house at Tre Madoc." My mother's pale cheek flushed a little. "Has anything new happened?" she asked. "New? Yes! The vultures are gathering to the carcass, Margaret. We are to be left in peace no longer in our quiet corner. The old convent at Sartilly is opened once more with a band of nuns and a black Dominican for a confessor. They call it a hospital—we all know what that means nowadays." My mother threw an arm round me as if to protect me, and I felt it tremble. "Then that was what the curé meant," said I, struck with a sudden light. I was a quick child, and the danger which was always in the background sharpened the wits of all children of the Religion. "That was what he meant by the wolves!" And then, struck by the impropriety I had committed in speaking without being addressed, I faltered, "I beg your pardon, monsieur." "There is no offence, my child; and you must not say monsieur, but my father," said he, sitting down and drawing me to him. "Tell me what was that about the curé and the wolves."