that in this desolate country of England no haricot beans were to be had. Then came a dish of meat—nature unknown, but supposed to be miscellaneous—singularly chopped up with crumbs of bread, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, and baked in a mould—a queer, but by no means unpalatable, dish. Greens, oddly bruised, formed the accompanying vegetable; and a p\ac\t\da\e of fruit, conserved after a recipe devised by Madame G\da\erard Moore’s ‘grand’m\dg\ere,’ and from the taste of which it appeared probable that ‘m\da\elasse’ had been substituted for sugar, completed the dinner.

Caroline had no objection to this Belgian cookery; indeed, she rather liked it for a change, and it was well she did so, for, had she evinced any disrelish thereof, such manifestation would have injured her in Mademoiselle’s good graces for ever; a positive crime might have been more easily pardoned than a symptom of distaste for the foreign comestibles.

Soon after dinner Caroline coaxed her governess-cousin upstairs to dress—this man\oe\uvre required management. To have hinted that the jupon, camisole and curl-papers were odious objects, or, indeed, other than quite meritorious points, would have been a felony. Any premature attempt to urge their disappearance was therefore unwise, and would be likely to issue in the persevering wear of them during the whole day. Carefully avoiding rocks and quicksands, however, the pupil, on pretence of requiring a change of scene, contrived to get the teacher aloft, and, once in the bedroom, she persuaded her that it was not worth while returning thither, and that she might as well make her toilette now; and, while Mademoiselle delivered a solemn homily on her own surpassing merit in disregarding all frivolities of fashion, Caroline denuded her of the camisole, invested her with a decent gown, arranged her collar, hair, etc., and made her quite presentable. But Hortense would put the finishing touches herself, and these finishing touches consisted in a thick handkerchief tied round the throat, and a large, servant-like black apron, which spoiled everything. On no account would Mademoiselle have appeared in her own house without the thick handkerchief and the voluminous apron; the first was a positive matter of morality—it was quite improper not to wear a fichu—the second was the ensign of a good housewife —she appeared to think that by means of it she somehow effected a large saving in her brother’s income. She had, with her own hands, made and presented to Caroline similar equipments, and the only serious quarrel they had ever had, and which still left a soreness in the elder cousin’s soul, had arisen from the refusal of the younger one to accept of and profit by these elegant presents.

‘I wear a high dress and a collar,’ said Caroline, ‘and I should feel suffocated with a handkerchief in addition, and my short aprons do quite as well as that very long one. I would rather make no change.’

Yet Hortense, by dint of perseverance, would probably have compelled her to make a change, had not Mr. Moore chanced to overhear a dispute on the subject, and decided that Caroline’s little aprons would suffice, and that, in his opinion, as she was still but a child, she might for the present dispense with the fichu, especially as her curls were long, and almost touched her shoulders.

There was no appeal against Robert’s opinion, therefore his sister was compelled to yield; but she disapproved entirely of the piquant neatness of Caroline’s costume, and the ladylike grace of her appearance: something more solid and homely she would have considered ‘beaucoup plus convenable.’

The afternoon was devoted to sewing. Mademoiselle, like most Belgian ladies, was specially skilful with her needle. She by no means thought it waste of time to devote unnumbered hours to fine embroidery, sight-destroying lace-work, marvellous netting and knitting, and, above all, to most elaborate stocking- mending. She would give a day to the mending of two holes in a stocking any time, and think her ‘mission’ nobly fulfilled when she had accomplished it. It was another of Caroline’s troubles to be condemned to learn this foreign style of darning, which was done stitch by stitch, so as exactly to imitate the fabric of the stocking itself—a weariful process, but considered by Hortense G\da\erard, and by her ancestresses before her for long generations back, as one of the first “duties of woman.” She herself had had a needle, cotton, and a fearfully torn stocking put into her hand while she yet wore a child’s coif on her little black head. Her ‘hauts faits’ in the darning line had been exhibited to company ere she was six years old, and