ain from our faces, and flowing loosely _a la belle
sauvage_, or in cool braids, is the order of the day. Even Marguerite,
who is the most conventional of our quartette, has conformed to the
fashion reigning here, and no longer coiffed in the stylish
_Imperatrice_ mode, her sunny brown hair floats over her shoulders
unconfined by hair-pins, cushions, or rats. Truly we live in Arcadian
simplicity, for under our roof there are neither curling nor crimping
irons, nor even a _soupcon_ of the most innocent _poudre de riz_.

At half-past eight a little hand-bell, silver in material and tone,
summons us to the breakfast-room. This room is on the ground floor,
and is one of the prettiest in the house. Four windows give us an
extended view of our Dame Chatelaine's sloping meadows and wooded
hills, and the carriage road winding off towards the pine grove and the
house in the woods. We have several pictures on the walls--first a
portrait of my dear uncle; a boyish face with fair hair, deep blue
eyes, and an expression angelic in sweetness. No one would imagine it
to be the face of a married man, but it was painted, mamma says, when
he was thirty years old. Two large and admirable photographs, taken
early last summer, hang opposite it. A striking contrast they are to
the pensive, fragile, blonde boy; these are impressed with the vigor
and mental and physical activity of his busy life, but the broad
intellectual brow, and the almost divine expression that plays about
the mouth, are the same in each.

An engraving from a picture by Paul Delaroche, the Archangel
Gabriel--the "patron," in Catholic parlance, of our little
Gabrielle--hangs between the windows, and over the comfortable sofa is
a copy of Liotard's celebrated pastel "la belle Chocolatiere" in the
Dresden Gallery. This copy Aunt Mary bought in that city when there
some years ago, and it is considered wonderfully fine. Very pretty and
coquettish she looks in her picturesque Vienna dress, with the small,
neatly-fitting cap, ample apron, and tiny Louis Quinze shoes. In her
case

"My face is my fortune,"

was exemplified, and so pretty and modest is her demeanor that it is no
wonder that Count Dietrichstein, haughty nobleman though he was,
married her. She is very different, however, from the chocolate
vendors whom I have seen in the streets of Paris. I don't think a
nobleman would ever raise one of them from their original station, for
they are as a rule pas