Jeanne gave a little start when she heard herself spoken to.  She had been all alone in the room for some time, with not a sound about her.  She turned slowly from the window and came near the fire.

“If I did catch cold, it would not be bad,” she said.  “I would stay in bed, and you, Marcelline, would make me nice things to eat, and nobody would say, ‘Don’t do that, Mademoiselle.’  It would be charming.”

Marcelline was Jeanne’s old nurse, and she had been her mother’s nurse too.  She was really rather old, how old nobody seemed exactly to know, but Jeanne thought her very old, and asked her once if she had not been her grandmother’s nurse too.  Any one else but Marcelline would have been offended at such a question; but Marcelline was not like any one else, and she never was offended at anything.  She was so old that for many years no one had seen much difference in her—­she had reached a sort of settled oldness, like an arm-chair which may once have been covered with bright-coloured silk, but which, with time and wear, has got to have an all-over-old look which never seems to get any worse.  Not that Marcelline was dull or grey to look at—­she was bright and cheery, and when she had a new clean cap on, all beautifully frilled and crimped round her face, Jeanne used to tell her that she was beautiful, quite beautiful, and that if she was very good and always did exactly what Jeanne asked her, she—­Jeanne—­would have her to be nurse to her children when she had grown up to be a lady, married to some very nice gentleman.

And when Jeanne chattered like that, Marcelline used to smile; she never said anything, she just smiled.  Sometimes Jeanne liked to see her smile; sometimes it would make her impatient, and she would say, “Why do you smile like that, Marcelline? Speak! When I speak I like you to speak too.”

But all she could get Marcelline to answer would be, “Well, Mademoiselle, it is very well what you say.”

This evening—­or perhaps I should say afternoon, for whatever hour the chickens’ timepiece made it, it was only half-past three by the great big clock that stood at the end of the long passage by Jeanne’s room door;—­this afternoon Jeanne was not quite as lively as she sometimes was.  She sat down on the floor in front of the fire and stared into it.  It was pretty to look at just then, for the wood was burning redly, and at the tiniest touch a whole bevy of lovely sparks would fly out like bees from a hive, or a covey of birds, or better still, like a thousand imprisoned fairies escaping at some magic touch.  Of all things, Jeanne loved to give this magic touch.  There was no poker, but she managed just as well with a stick of unburnt wood, or sometimes, when she was quite sure Marcelline was not looking, with the toe of her little shoe.  Just now it was Marcelline who set the fairy sparks free by moving the logs a little and putting on a fresh one behind.