“Ah, what beauties,” cried Alice, taking a few; and the basket being handed round, we were soon all eating cherries; and Gabrielle asked me if I did not wish she had the gift of St. Marguerite.

“I do not know what gift you mean,” said I, turning half round, and looking full at her.

“Once on a time,” said the lively girl, “the foolish story goes, that two saints, who were brother and sister, lived in separate monasteries; but the brother was frequently visited by his sister, on the pretence of seeking spiritual advice.  Their names were St. Honorat and St. Marguerite.  At length the brother grew rather tired of his sister’s visits, and called them a waste of time.  ’Henceforth, let it suffice that I shall visit you occasionally, said he.  ‘When?’ said St. Marguerite.  ‘When the cherry-trees blossom,’ said St Honorat.  Thereupon, St. Marguerite prayed that the cherry-trees might blossom once a month, which they did; so her brother acknowledged himself outwitted.”

“Fie for shame, daughter,” said M. Bourdinave, with displeasure.  “I am grieved that you should remember and repeat such lying legends.”

“Dear father, they exercise the fancy—­”

“Exercise the fancy, indeed!  Let fancy confine herself to her own province.  She is a good servant, but a bad mistress.  The Jews exercised their fancies in the wild Talmudical fables.  What said our Saviour of them?  ’Ye make the word of God of none effect through your traditions.  Let me hear no more papistical fables.”

Gabrielle hung her head, and stealing a glance that way, I saw Madeleine pass her arm round her sister’s waist, and look sweetly at her, which made me think Madeleine more attractive than ever.  M. Bourdinave did not immediately recover his equanimity, but addressing my father, said it more than ever behooved good Reformers to walk warily, and not give in to any of the ensnaring practices of the surrounding Catholics.  “Little by little they are stealing in on us already,” said he, “and, if our sagacious men are to be believed, a time of trouble is preparing for us that may perhaps not fall very short of the massacre on the day of St. Bartholomew.”

“Still,” said my father, “we are under the protection of the Edict of Nantes.”

“Edicts may be set aside,” said M. Bourdinave, in a lowered voice, which yet I heard, being next him.  “Only think how we have been annoyed and injured the last two or three years, by edicts differing greatly from the Edict of Nantes.  That one, for instance, which rendered us liable to the intrusion of Catholics into our temples, to spy at our observances, pick up scraps of our sermons, and report them incorrectly.  What advantage the rabble have taken of it!”

“Too true,” said my father, gravely.

“Last year,” pursued M. Bourdinave, “that attempted confederacy for mutual protection, when all our closed meetinghouses were reopened for worship, showed what temper our adversaries were of.”