So Madame de Bourke’s hair was simply rolled out of her way, and she appeared in her true colours, as a little brisk, bonny woman, with no actual beauty, but very expressive light gray eyes, furnished with intensely long black lashes, and a sweet, mobile, lively countenance.

Estelle was trying to amuse little Jacques, and prevent him from trotting between the boxes, putting all sorts of undesirable goods into them; and Ulysse had collected his toys, and was pleading earnestly that a headless wooden horse and a kite, twice as tall as himself, of Lanty’s manufacture, might go with them.

He was told that another cerf-volant should be made for him at the journey’s end; but was only partially consoled, and his mother was fain to compound for a box of woolly lambs.  Estelle winked away a tear when her doll was rejected, a wooden, highly painted lady, bedizened in brocade, and so dear to her soul that it was hard to be told that she was too old for such toys, and that the Swedes would be shocked to see the Ambassador’s daughter embracing a doll.  She had, however, to preserve her character of a reasonable child, and tried to derive consolation from the permission to bestow ‘Mademoiselle’ upon the concierge’s little sick daughter, who would be sure to cherish her duly.

‘But, oh mamma, I pray you to let me take my book!’

’Assuredly, my child.  Let us see!  What?  Telemaque?  Not “Prince Percinet and Princess Gracieuse?"’

‘I am tired of them, mamma.’

‘Nor Madame d’Aulnoy’s Fairy Tales?’

‘Oh no, thank you, mamma; I love nothing so well as Telemaque.’

‘Thou art a droll child!’ said her mother.

‘Ah, but we are going to be like Telemaque.’

‘Heaven forfend!’ said the poor lady.

’Yes, dear mamma, I am glad you are going with us instead of staying at home to weave and unweave webs.  If Penelope had been like you, she would have gone!’

‘Take care, is not Jacques acting Penelope?’ said Madame de Bourke, unable to help smiling at her little daughter’s glib mythology, while going to the rescue of the embroidery silks, in which her youngest son was entangling himself.

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a message was brought that the Countess of Nithsdale begged the favour of a few minutes’ conversation in private with Madame.  The Scottish title fared better on the lips of La Jeunesse than it would have done on those of his predecessor.  There was considerable intimacy among all the Jacobite exiles in and about Paris; and Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale, though living a very quiet and secluded life, was held in high estimation among all who recollected the act of wifely heroism by which she had rescued her husband from the block.

Madame de Bourke bade the maids carry off the little Jacques, and Ulysse followed; but Estelle, who had often listened with rapt attention to the story of the escape, and longed to feast her eyes on the heroine, remained in her corner, usefully employed in disentangling the embroilment of silks, and with the illustrations to her beloved Telemaque as a resource in case the conversation should be tedious.  Children who have hundreds of picture-books to rustle through can little guess how their predecessors could once dream over one.