so beautiful with the evident
joy of self-sacrifice.

During the great war the alliance with France had made the language of
that country the fashion. French officers came and went, and among the
Whig families of position French was even earlier, as in Mary
Plumstead's case, a not very rare accomplishment. But of late she had
had little opportunity to use her knowledge, and with no such courage as
that of Gainor Wynne, had preferred the awkwardness of silence until her
guest's illness obliged her to put aside her shy distrust in the
interest of kindness. She soon found the tongue grow easier, and the
vicomtesse began to try at short English sentences, and was pleased to
amuse herself by correcting Margaret, who had early learned French from
her mother, and with ready intelligence seized gladly on this fresh
chance to improve her knowledge.

One day as Mrs. Swanwick sat beside her guest's couch, she said: "Thy
son told me soon after thy coming that thou art not, like most of the
French, of the Church of Rome." He, it seemed, desired to see a Friends'
meeting, and his mother had expressed her own wish to do the same when
well enough.

"No," said madame; "we are of the religion--Huguenots. There is no
church of my people here, so my son tells me, and no French women among
the emigrants."

"Yes, one or two. That is thy Bible, is it not?" pointing to the book
lying open beside her. "I am reading French when times serve. But I have
never seen a French Bible. May I look at it? I understand thy speech
better every day, and Margaret still better; but I fear my French may be
queer enough to thee."

"It is certainly better than my English," said the vicomtesse, adding,
after a brief pause: "It is the French of a kind heart." The vicomtesse
as she spoke was aware of a breach in her usual reserve of rather formal
thankfulness.

"I thank thee for thy pretty way of saying a pleasant thing," returned
Mrs. Swanwick. "I learned it--thy language--when a girl, and was
foolishly shy of its use before I knew thee so well. Now I shall blunder
on at ease, and Margaret hath the audacity of youth."

"A charming child," said madame, "so gay and so gentle and intelligent."

"Yes, a good girl. Too many care for her--ah, the men! One would wish
to keep our girls children, and she is fast ceasing to be a child."

She turned to the Bible in her hand, open at a dry leaf of ivy. "It has
psalms, I see, here at the end."

"Yes, Clement Marot