that she was very tired, sleepy and tired. She glanced, from her place
next to Emma Bergmann and on Fraulein's left hand, down the table to
where Mademoiselle sat next the Martins in similar relation to the
vice-president. Mademoiselle, preceding her up through the quiet house
carrying the jugs of hot water, had been her first impression on her
arrival the previous night. She had turned when they reached the
candle-lit attic with its high uncurtained windows and red-covered box
beds, and standing on the one strip of matting in her full-skirted grey
wincey dress with its neat triple row of black ribbon velvet near the
hem, had shown Miriam steel-blue eyes smiling from a little triangular
sprite-like face under a high-standing pouf of soft dark hair, and said,
"Voila!" Miriam had never imagined anything in the least like her. She
had said, "Oh, thank you," and taken the jug and had hurriedly and
silently got to bed, weighed down by wonders. They had begun to talk in
the dark. Miriam had reaped sweet comfort in learning that this
seemingly unreal creature who was, she soon perceived, not educated--as
she understood education--was the resident French governess, was
seventeen years old and a Protestant. Such close quarters with a French
girl was bewildering enough--had she been a Roman Catholic, Miriam felt
she could not have endured her proximity. She was evidently a special
kind of French girl--a Protestant from East
France--Besanon--Besanon--Miriam had tried the pretty word over until
unexpectedly she had fallen asleep.

They had risen hurriedly in the cold March gloom and Miriam had not
spoken to her since. There she sat, dainty and quiet and fresh. White
frillings shone now at the neck and sleeves of her little grey dress.
She looked a clean and clear miniature against the general dauby effect
of the English girls--poor though, Miriam was sure; perhaps as poor as
she. She felt glad as she watched her gentle sprite-like wistfulness