“You are too kind to us, madame.”

“Oh, no—­I am sure you resemble each other as much in disposition as in face.”

“That is quite natural, madame,” said Rose, “for since our birth we have never left each other a minute, whether by night or day.  It would be strange, if we were not like in character.”

“Really, my dear young ladies! you have never left each other a minute?”

“Never, madame.”  The sisters joined hands with an expressive smile.

“Then, how unhappy you would be, and how much to be pitied, if ever you were separated.”

“Oh, madame! it is impossible,” said Blanche, smiling.

“How impossible?”

“Who would have the heart to separate us?”

“No doubt, my dear young ladies, it would be very cruel.”

“Oh, madame,” resumed Blanche, “even very wicked people would not think of separating us.”

“So much the better, my dear young ladies—­pray, why?”

“Because it would cause us too much grief.”

“Because it would kill us.”

“Poor little dears!”

“Three months ago, we were shut up in prison.  Well when the governor of the prison saw us, though he looked a very stern man, he could not help saying:  ‘It would be killing these children to separate them;’ and so we remained together, and were as happy as one can be in prison.”

“It shows your excellent heart, and also that of the persons who knew how to appreciate it.”

The carriage stopped, and they heard the coachman call out “Any one at the gate there?”

“Oh! here we are at your relation’s,” said Mrs. Grivois.  Two wings of a gate flew open, and the carriage rolled over the gravel of a court-yard.

Mrs. Grivois having drawn up one of the blinds, they found themselves in a vast court, across the centre of which ran a high wall, with a kind of porch upon columns, under which was a little door.  Behind this wall, they could see the upper part of a very large building in freestone.  Compared with the house in the Rue Brise-Miche, this building appeared a palace; so Blanche said to Mrs. Grivois, with an expression of artless admiration:  “Dear me, madame, what a fine residence!”

“That is nothing,” replied Madame Grivois; “wait till you see the interior, which is much finer.”

When the coachman opened the door of the carriage, what was the rage of Mrs. Grivois, and the surprise of the girls, to see Spoil-sport, who had been clever enough to follow the coach.  Pricking up his ears, and wagging his tail, he seemed to have forgotten his late offences, and to expect to be praised for his intelligent fidelity.

“What!” cried Mrs. Grivois, whose sorrows were renewed at the sight; “has that abominable dog followed the coach?”

“A famous dog, mum,” answered the coachman “he never once left the heels of my horses.  He must have been trained to it.  He’s a powerful beast, and two men couldn’t scare him.  Look at the throat of him now!”