ion. One by one,
the little girls stepped into the garden. Their coming seemed like
some sudden outburst of bloom, a miraculous flowering of May. In the
open air the white skirts expanded, streaked moire-like by the
sunshine with shades of the utmost delicacy. An apple-tree above was
raining down its blossoms; gossamer-threads were floating to and fro;
the dresses were instinct with all the purity of spring. And their
number still increased; they already surrounded the lawn; they yet
lightly descended the steps, sailing on like downy balls suddenly
expanding beneath the open sky.

The garden was now a snowy mass, and as Helene gazed on the crowd of
little girls, a memory awoke within her. She remembered another joyous
season, with its ball and the gay twinkling of tiny feet. She once
more saw Marguerite in her milk-girl costume, with her can hanging
from her waist; and Sophie, dressed as a waiting-maid, and revolving
on the arm of her sister Blanche, whose trappings as Folly gave out a
merry tinkle of bells. She thought, too, of the five Levasseur girls,
and of the Red Riding-Hoods, whose number had seemed endless, with
their ever-recurring cloaks of poppy-colored satin edged with black
velvet; while little Mademoiselle Guiraud, with her Alsatian butterfly
bow in her hair, danced as if demented opposite a Harlequin twice as
tall as herself. To-day they were all arrayed in white. Jeanne, too,
was in white, her head laid amongst white flowers on the white satin
pillow. The delicate-faced Japanese maiden, with hair transfixed by
long pins, and purple tunic embroidered with birds, was leaving them
for ever in a gown of snowy white.

"How tall they have all grown!" exclaimed Helene, as she burst into
tears.

They were all there but her daughter; she alone was missing. Monsieur
Rambaud led her to the pavilion; but she remained on the threshold,
anxious to see the funeral procession start. Several of the ladies
bowed to her quietly. The children looked at her, with some
astonishment in their blue eyes. Meanwhile Pauline was hovering round,
giving orders. She lowered her voice for the occasion, but at times
forgot herself.

"Now, be good children! Look, you little stupid, you are dirty
already! I'll come for you in a minute; don't stir."

The hearse drove up; it was time to start, but Madame Deberle
appeared, exclaiming: "The bouquets have been forgotten! Quick,
Pauline, the bouquets!"

Some little confusion ensued. A