Erica, who was now a tall and very pretty girl of eighteen, was sitting on the hearth rug with Ninette on her lap; she was in very high spirits, and kept the little group in perpetual laughter, so much so indeed that Fraulein Sonnenthal had more than once been obliged to interfere, and do her best to quiet them. “How wild thou art, dear Erica?” she exclaimed. “What is it?” “I am happy, that is all,” said Erica. “You would be happy if the year of freedom were just dawning for you. Three months more and I shall be home.” She was like a child in her exultant happiness, far more child-like, indeed, than the grave little Ninette whom she was nursing. “Thou art not dignified enough for a teacher,” said the fraulein, laughingly. “She is no teacher,” cried the girls. “It is holiday time and she need not talk that frightful English.” Erica made a laughing defense of her native tongue, and such a babel ensued that the fraulein had to interfere again. “Liebe Erica! Thou art beside thyself! What has come to thee?” “Only joy, dear Thekla, at the thought of the beautiful new year which is coming,” cried Erica. “Father would say I was 'fey,' and should pay for all this fun with a bad headache or some misfortune. Come, give me the French 'David Copperfield,' and let me read you how 'Barkis Veut Bien,' and 'Mrs. Gummidge a Pense de l'Ancien.'” The reading was more exquisitely ludicrous to Erica herself than to her hearers. Still the wit of Charles Dickens, even when translated, called forth peals of laughter from the French girls, too. It was the brightest, happiest little group imaginable; perhaps it was scarcely wonderful that old Mme. Lemercier, when she came to break it up, should find her eyes dim with tears. “My dear Erica--” she said, and broke off abruptly. Erica looked up with laughing eyes. “Don't scold, dear madame,” she said, coaxingly. “We have been very noisy; but it is New year's eve, and we are so happy.” “Dear child, it is not that,” said madame. “I want to speak to you for a minute; come with me, cherie.” Still Erica noticed nothing; did not detect the tone of pity, did not wonder at the terms of endearment which were generally reserved for more private use. She followed madame into the hall, still chattering gayly. “The 'David Copperfield' is for monsieur's present tomorrow,” she said, laughingly. “I knew he was too lazy to read it in English, so I got him a translation.” “My dear,” said madame, taking her hand, “try to be quiet a moment. I--I have something to tell you. My poor little one, monsieur your father is arrived--” “Father! Father here!” exclaimed Erica, in a transport of delight. “Where is he, where? Oh, madame, why didn't you tell me sooner?” Mme. Lemercier tried in vain to detain her, as with cheeks all glowing with happiness and dancing eyes, she ran at full speed to the salon. “Father!” she cried, throwing open the door and running to meet him. Then suddenly she stood quite still as if petrified.