sband," said Madame Perrier;
"our chamber is above, and the chamber for you and leetle mees is there
also. But the school is not there. Will you go to bed? Will you sleep?
Come on, mees."

"But we are very hungry," I remonstrated; "we have had nothing to eat
since noon. We could not sleep without food."

"Bah! that is true," she said. "Well, come on. The food is at the
school. Come on."

That must be the house at the back. We went down the broad gravel walk,
with the pretty garden at the side of us, where a fountain was tinkling
and splashing busily in the quiet night. But we passed the front of the
house behind it without stopping, at the door. Madame led us through a
cart-shed into a low, long, vaulted passage, with doors opening on each
side; a black, villanous-looking place, with the feeble, flickering
light of the candle throwing on to the damp walls a sinister gleam.
Minima pressed very close to me, and I felt a strange quiver of
apprehension: but the thought that there was no escape from it, and no
help at hand, nerved me to follow quietly to the end.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

AT SCHOOL IN FRANCE.

The end brought us out into a mean, poor street, narrow even where the
best streets were narrow. A small house, the exterior of which I
discovered afterward to be neglected and almost dilapidated, stood
before us; and madame unlocked the door with a key from her pocket. We
were conducted into a small kitchen, where a fire had been burning
lately, though it was now out, and only a little warmth lingered about
the stove. Minima was set upon a chair opposite to it, with her feet in
the oven, and I was invited to do the same. I assented mechanically, and
looked furtively about me, while madame was busy in cutting a huge hunch
or two of black bread, and spreading upon them a thin scraping of rancid
butter.

There was an oil-lamp here, burning with a clear, bright blaze. Madame's
face was illuminated by it. It was a coarse, sullen face, with an
expression of low cunning about it. There was not a trace of refinement
or culture about her, not even the proverbial taste of a Frenchwoman in
dress. The kitchen was a picture of squalid dirt and neglect; the walls
and ceiling black with smoke, and the floor so crusted over with unswept
refuse and litter that I thought it was not quarried. The few
cooking-utensils were scattered about in disorder. The stove before
which we sat was rusty. Could I be dreaming of this filth