about fifty years of age, wrapped in a cotton shawl and carrying a
small basket on her arm, knocked at the door of a house in the Rue St
Vincent, which, however, at the period we refer to, bore the name of
Rue de la Liberté. The door opened. 'It is you, Dame Margaret,' said
the porter, with a very cross look. 'It is high time for you. All my
lodgers have come home long since; you are always the last, and'----

'That is not my fault, I assure you, my dear M. Thiebaut,' said, the
old woman in a deprecatory tone. 'My day's work is only just finished,
and when work is to be done'----

'That's all very fine,' he muttered. 'It might do well enough if I
could even reckon on a Christmas-box at the end of the year; but as it
is, I may count myself well off, if I do but get paid for taking up
their letters.'

The old woman did not hear the last words, for with quick and firm
step she had been making her way up the six flights of stairs, steep
enough to make her head reel had she been ascending them for the first
time. 'Nine o'clock!--nine o'clock! How uneasy she must be!' and as
she spoke, she opened with her latch-key the door of a wretched
garret, in which dimly burned a rushlight, whose flickering flame
scarcely seemed to render visible the scanty furniture the room
contained.

'Is that you, my good Margaret?' said a feeble and broken voice from
the farther end of the little apartment.

'Yes, my dear lady; yes, it is I; and very sorry I am to have made you
uneasy. But Madame Lebriton, my worthy employer, is so active herself,