The name of the pretended simpleton will serve as a natural transition, to inform the reader of the cause of the hilarity of the sisters.  They were laughing at the numberless absurdities of the idiot.  The girls rose and dressed themselves, each serving as lady’s-maid to the other.  Rose had combed and arranged Blanche’s hair; it was now Blanche’s turn to do the same for her sister.  Thus occupied, they formed a charming picture.  Rose was seated before the dressing-table; her sister, standing behind her, was smoothing her beautiful brown hair.  Happy age! so little removed from childhood, that present joy instantly obliterates the traces of past sorrow!  But the sisters felt more than joy; it was happiness, deep and unalterable, for their father loved them, and their happiness was a delight, and not a pain to him.  Assured of the affection of his children, he, also, thanks to them, no longer feared any grief.  To those three beings, thus certain of their mutual love, what was a momentary separation?  Having explained this, we shall understand the innocent gayety of the sisters, notwithstanding their father’s departure, and the happy, joyous expression, which now filled with animation their charming faces, on which the late fading rose had begun once more to bloom.  Their faith in the future gave to their countenances something resolute and decisive, which added a degree of piquancy to the beauty of their enchanting features.

Blanche, in smoothing her sister’s hair, let fall the comb, and, as she was stooping to pick it up, Rose anticipated her, saying:  “If it had been broken, we would have put it into the handle-basket.”

Then the two laughed merrily at this expression, which reminded them of an admirable piece of folly on the part of Loony.

The supposed simpleton had broken the handle of a cup, and when the governess of the young ladies had reprimanded him for his carelessness, he had answered:  “Never mind, madame; I have put it into the handle basket.”

“The handle-basket, what is that?”

“Yes, Madame; it is where I keep all the handles I break off the things!”

“Dear me!” said Rose, drying her eyes; “how silly it is to laugh at such foolishness.”

“It is droll,” replied Blanche; “how can we help it?”

“All I regret is, that father cannot hear us laugh.”

“He was so happy to see us gay!”

“We must write to him to-day, the story of the handle-basket.”

“And that of the feather-brush, to show that, according to promise, we kept up our spirits during his absence.”

“Write to him, sister? no, he is to write to us, and we are not to answer his letters.”

“True! well then, I have an idea.  Let us address letters to him here, Dagobert can put them into the post, and, on his return, our father will read our correspondence.”

“That will be charming!  What nonsense we will write to him, since he takes pleasure in it!”