contents on to the floor. It was an alphabet, each letter being written separately on a small tablet of wood. No sooner were these toys displayed on the matting than, to the child’s delighted surprise, the goat (of whose miracles this was no doubt one) proceeded to separate certain letters with her golden fore-foot, and by dint of pushing them gently about ranged them in a certain order. In a minute they formed a word, which the goat seemed practised in composing, to judge by the ease with which she accomplished the task. Berangère clasped her hands in admiration.

“Godmother Fleur-de-Lys,” she cried, “come and see what the goat has done!”

Fleur-de-Lys ran to look, and recoiled at the sight. The letters disposed upon the floor formed the word,

P-H-O-E-B-U-S.

“The goat put that word together?” she asked excitedly

“Yes, godmother,” answered Berangère. It was impossible to doubt it; the child could not spell.

“So this is the secret,” thought Fleur-de-Lys.

By this time the rest of the party had come forward to look—the mother, the girls, the gipsy, the young soldier.

The Bohemian saw the blunder the goat had involved her in. She turned red and white, and then began to tremble like a guilty creature before the captain, who gazed at her with a smile of satisfaction and astonishment.

“Phœbus!” whispered the girls in amazement; “that is the name of the captain!”

“You have a wonderful memory!” said Fleur-de-Lys to the stupefied gipsy girl. Then, bursting into tears: “Oh,” she sobbed, “she is a sorceress!” While a still more bitter voice whispered in her inmost heart, “She is a rival!” And she swooned in her mother’s arms.

“My child! my child!” cried the terrined mother. “Begone, diabolical gipsy!”

In a trice Esmeralda gathered up the unlucky letters, made a sign to Djali, and quitted the room by one door, as they carried Fleur-de-Lys out by another.

Captain Phœbus, left alone, hesitated a moment between the two doors—then followed the gipsy girl.