“How pretty they are, are they not, Marcelline?” said Jeanne.

Marcelline did not speak, and when Jeanne looked up at her, she saw by the light of the fire that she was smiling.  Jeanne held up her forefinger.

“Naughty Marcelline,” she said; “you are not to smile.  You are to speak.  I want you to speak very much, for it is so dull, and I have nothing to do.  I want you to tell me stories, Marcelline.  Do you hear, you naughty little thing?”

“And what am I to tell you stories about then, Mademoiselle?  You have got all out of my old head long ago; and when the grain is all ground what can the miller do?”

“Get some more, of course,” said Jeanne.  “Why, I could make stories if I tried, I daresay, and I am only seven, and you who are a hundred—­are you quite a hundred, Marcelline?”

Marcelline shook her head.

“Not quite, Mademoiselle,” she said.

“Well, never mind, you are old enough to make stories, any way.  Tell me more about the country where you lived when you were little as I; the country you will never tell me the name of.  Oh, I do like that one about the Golden Princess shut up in the castle by the sea!  I like stories about princesses best of all.  I do wish I were a princess; next to my best wish of all, I wish to be a princess.  Marcelline, do you hear?  I want you to tell me a story.”

Still Marcelline did not reply.  She in her turn was looking into the fire.  Suddenly she spoke.

“One, two, three,” she said.  “Quick, now, Mademoiselle, quick, quick.  Wish a wish before that last spark is gone.  Quick, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh dear, what shall I wish?” exclaimed Jeanne.  “When you tell me to be quick it all goes out of my head; but I know now.  I wish——­”

“Hush, Mademoiselle,” said Marcelline, quickly again.  “You must not say it aloud.  Never mind, it is all right.  You have wished it before the spark is gone.  It will come true, Mademoiselle.”

Jeanne’s bright dark eyes glanced up at Marcelline with an expression of mingled curiosity and respect.

“How do you know it will come true?” she said.

Marcelline’s old eyes, nearly as bright and dark still as Jeanne’s own, had a half-mischievous look in them as she replied, solemnly shaking her head,

“I know, Mademoiselle, and that is all I can say.  And when the time comes for your wish to be granted, you will see if I am not right.”

“Shall I?” said Jeanne, half impressed, half rebellious.  “Do the fairies tell you things, Marcelline?  Not that I believe there are any fairies—­not now, any way.”

“Don’t say that, Mademoiselle,” said Marcelline.  “In that country I have told you of no one ever said such a thing as that.”

“Why didn’t they?  Did they really see fairies there?” asked Jeanne, lowering her voice a little.

“Perhaps,” said Marcelline; but that was all she would say, and Jeanne couldn’t get her to tell her any fairy stories, and had to content herself with making them for herself instead out of the queer shapes of the burning wood of the fire.