After Émile, Gabrielle. Her age is probably seven. If you were to give
her a wash and brush-up, dress her in a gauzy frock, and exchange
her thick woollen stockings and wooden sabots for silk and dancing
slippers, she would make a very smart little fairy. Even in her native
state she is a most attractive young person, of an engaging coyness.
If you say: "Bonjour, Gabrielle!" she whispers: "B'jour M'sieur le
Capitaine"--or, "M'sieur le Caporal"; for she knows all badges of
rank--and hangs her head demurely. But presently, if you stand quite
still and look the other way, Gabrielle will sidle up to you and
squeeze your hand. This is gratifying, but a little subversive of
strict discipline if you happen to be inspecting your platoon at the
moment.

Gabrielle is a firm favourite with the rank and file. Her particular
crony is one Private Mackay, an amorphous youth with flaming red hair.
He and Gabrielle engage in lengthy conversations, which appear to be
perfectly intelligible to both, though Mackay speaks with the solemn
unction of the Aberdonian, and Gabrielle prattles at express speed
in a _patois_ of her own. Last week some unknown humorist, evidently
considering that Gabrielle was not making sufficient progress in her
knowledge of English, took upon himself to give her a private lesson.
Next morning Mackay, on sentry duty at the farm gate, espied his
little friend peeping round a corner.

"Hey, Garibell!" he observed cheerfully. (No Scottish private ever yet
mastered a French name quite completely.)

Gabrielle, anxious to exhibit her new accomplishment, drew nearer,
smiled seraphically, and replied--