“Yes: the painter did not do it justice. It was most lovely, and gave him such a distinguished air, quite different from the common herd. Stay, I will show you the exact colour, if you will come near this flambeau!” And going near the light, she took off a bracelet of hair, with a magnificent clasp of pearls. It was peculiar, certainly. I did not know what to say. “His precious lovely beard!” said she. “And the pearls go so well with the delicate blue!” Her husband, who had come up to us, and waited till her eye fell upon him before venturing to speak, now said, “It is strange Monsieur Ogre is not yet arrived!” “Not at all strange,” said she, tartly. “He was always very stupid, and constantly falls into mistakes, in which he comes worse off; and it is very well he does, for he is a credulous and cowardly fellow. Not at all strange! If you will”—turning to her husband, so that I hardly heard her words, until I caught—“Then everybody would have their rights, and we should have no more trouble. Is it not, monsieur?” addressing me. “If I were in England, I should imagine madame was speaking of the reform bill, or the millennium,—but I am in ignorance.” And just as I spoke, the great folding-doors were thrown open wide, and every one started to their feet to greet a little old lady, leaning on a thin black wand—and— “Madame la Féemarraine,” was announced by a chorus of sweet shrill voices. And in a moment I was lying in the grass close by a hollow oak-tree, with the slanting glory of the dawning day shining full in my face, and thousands of little birds and delicate insects piping and warbling out their welcome to the ruddy splendour. SIX WEEKS AT HEPPENHEIM.