g her large blue eyes, which were
on the verge of tears, "it is vacation now, and there is no wrong in my
playing a game of billiards with my brother; we have no billiards at the
'Sacred Heart,' and it is such fun! It is like riding; the doctor said
that it would be very healthful for me, and Christian hoped that it
might make me grow a little."

As she said these words, the young girl glanced into the mirror in order
to see whether her brother's hopes had been realized; for her small
stature was her sole anxiety. But this glance was as quick as a flash,
for she feared that the severe old maid would make this act of coquetry
serve as the text for another sermon.

"You are not my niece, and I am thankful for it," continued the old
lady. "I am too old to begin another education; thank goodness, one is
quite enough! I have no authority over you, and your conduct is
your brother's concern. The advice which I give you is entirely
disinterested; your amusements are not such as seem to me proper for
a young girl of good birth. It may be possible that it is the fashion
today, so I will say no more about it; but there is one thing more
serious, upon which I should advise you to reflect. In my youth, a young
lady never was allowed to write letters except to her father and
mother. Your letters to your cousin d'Artigues are inconsiderate--do not
interrupt me--they are inconsiderate, and I should advise you to mend
your ways."

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil arose, and, as she had found an opportunity
to read three sermons in one forenoon, she could not say, like Titus,
"I have wasted my morning." She left the room with a majestic step,
escorted by her dog and satisfied with herself, bestowing an ironical
curtsey on the young girl, which the latter did not think it necessary
to return.

"How hateful your aunt is!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Bergenheim to her
sister-in-law, when they were alone. "Christian says that I must pay no
attention to her, because all women become like her if they never marry.
As for myself, I know very well that if I am an old maid I shall try
not to hurt others' feelings--I, inconsiderate! When she can think of
nothing more to say, she scolds me about my cousin. It is hardly worth
while, for what we write about! Alphonse wrote of nothing, in his last
letter, but of the partridge he had shot and his hunting costume; he is
such a boy! But why do you not say something? You sit there speechless;
are you angry w