"And you certainly will not be able to uncurl it," replied my mother,
stroking my head with her gloved hands. "It's a regular wig, and they
must never attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They could
not possibly get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too
much. What do you give the children at four o'clock?" she asked,
changing the subject.

"Oh, a slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them."

"There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam," said my mother, "but
she must have jam one day, and chocolate another, as she has not a good
appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds of
chocolate." Madame Fressard smiled in a good-natured but rather ironical
way. She picked up a packet of the chocolate and looked at the name of
the maker.

"Ah! from Marquis's! What a spoiled little girl it is!" She patted my
cheek with her white fingers, and then as her eyes fell on a large jar
she looked surprised. "That's cold cream," said my mother. "I make it
myself, and I should like my little girl's face and hands to be rubbed
with it every night when she goes to bed."

"But----" began Madame Fressard.

"Oh, I'll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets," interrupted my
mother impatiently. (Ah, my poor mother! I remember quite well that my
sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils.)

The farewell moment came at last, and every one gathered round mamma,