Monsieur Dumenil then asked him if he knew anything about the sister of that lad, whom, of course, he must recollect as the one he had sent, on a certain evening, to get a gold piece changed.

"Not I, indeed!-I took no notice of the little girl," replied the man; and persisting in his ignorance, Monsieur Dumenil was of course obliged to give it up, and the party resumed their progress with their prisoner. Thus poor Seppi was again left in painful doubt and anxiety.

It is now, however, full time that we should seek around for little Marie, and ascertain what has been her fate since her separation from her brother.

In vain did she continue to await the return of Seppi; and after sitting on the step in the most anxious and painful expectation, she at length rose, and proceeded across to the shop, to inquire about him: they, however, only told her, that they had left him in one of the streets some distance off, and, as it was so dark, they supposed he must have missed his way. Alas, poor Marie!-what was she to do? Tired, and almost fainting with hunger, she could hardly drag her legs along, loaded as she was with the hurdy-gurdy and the marmot, sobbing her poor little heart out. She walked on, as well as she could, down one street and then another, but all in vain, nowhere could she find Seppi. Some boys happening to pass, she asked them if they had perhaps seen a little Savoyard boy about; and one of the young rascals replied, “Yes, he was sure he had seen him in a street a little way off." She then said: "Oh, will you just take care of my hurdy-gurdy and the marmot, while I run after him, for you see I can scarcely walk with such a load?"

"Oh, yes," says one, kindly, "I will take care of them till you return. But you must make haste after him, for he was walking very fast."

The unsuspecting girl lost not a moment, but, giving both to the boy's care, hastened, as fast as possible, in the direction given; and, when there, looked everywhere around, calling out, "Seppi! Seppi!" but she received no answer. Poor Marie, finding it in vain to wait any longer, slowly returned to where she had left the boy with the hurdy-gurdy and the marmot; but, on coming there, looked in vain for him. Her eyes searched everywhere around, but it was useless, for boy, hurdygurdy, and marmot, had vanished. And now, this last blow was too much for Marie. She had lost her brother, and now she had lost what was to procure her food-in that great, strange city! Ah, what tears of sorrow and lamentation the poor afflicted girl shed, when she thought of her wretched, forlorn state!

It grew later and later; and casting her tearful eyes once more around her, in despair, she caught sight of a lady, who had just stopped before the door of a large house, and rang the bell. She was attended by a female servant, or companion, who held in her arms, carefully wrapped up like an infant, a little lap-dog. Marie rushed towards the lady, and exclaimed, beseechingly: "Ah, for Heaven's sake! dear, dear lady, pray, pray take pity on me; do take me in with you, and give me a crust of bread, and a night's shelter in any corner of your house. I am trembling all over from fatigue and hunger. I have lost my brother Seppi, and only arrived in Paris this evening!"

The lady turned round, and said, ill-naturedly: "Go about

your business, do, you low creature; don't disturb my sweet Bijou's sleep with your noise."

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"Ah, good lady, do not, pray do not leave me to sleep in the streets all night; do take me with you, I will not, depend upon it, disturb any one."

"Take pity upon her, madam," said her companion with the dog: "she would just suit you, for you want just such a little girl as her, to take care of and wait upon Bijou, and amuse him."

Madame Bertin cast a contemptuous look at Marie, saying, "I am only afraid such a creature would be too coarse and rough for my tender Bijou!-However, you may come in; I will make a trial of you."

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The door was now opened; the lady entered, followed by her servant, carrying the snoring dog, and by the poor little Savoyard girl.

When they entered the drawing-room, the first most important business was to get ready the soft bed of the treasured lap-dog, and to carefully cover him over with the embroidered quilt. This being done, its mistress turned her eyes towards Marie, and exclaimed, in great contempt: "What a dusty, dirty object that is! Mind, Therese, she must not approach my Bijou too closely in that pickle. Do pray take her away, and give her some straw to sleep upon, and don't let me see her again before she is washed and made more decent. Have you, then, no other clothes, girl, but those you have on? Why, they are nothing but rags."

Poor Marie! what were her feelings when so addressed! But she made no reply, and followed Therese, who shewed her into a room, in the corner of which she made her a bed

of straw, and gave her a piece of bread; this the poor girl quickly demolished, and creeping to her straw bed, she very soon fell asleep.

In the morning, after cleaning herself, and arranging her dress the best way possible, she appeared before her new mistress. The latter was reclining upon the sofa at breakfast, whilst Bijou, not yet quite awake, was at her side.

"Well," said she, "you look a trifle more decent now. Pray what do they call you?"

The contrast between the soft and gentle tone with which she addressed her dog, and the harsh and brutal style with which she spoke to our little Savoyard was painfully cutting, and affected Marie to tears.

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My name is Marie," she gently replied.

"Why, I declare you are actually crying," said Madame Bertin; "come, come, I won't have that: do you hear? Mind, I have taken you out of the streets for the sake of my sweet little Bijou, and you will understand that your duty is to attend to everything he wants, and when he is asleep you must fan away the flies from tormenting him; and you must set his pillow aright, play with him when he wishes it, and, in fact, you must be entirely at his command. And for all this I will give you your food, and such other trifling things as a poor, common peasant girl like you may want."

At this moment a young girl, about eighteen years of age, was shewn in by Therese, and, making a neat courtesy, said very humbly-" Good morning, madame; you will excuse my intruding so early, but I have brought the work you gave me to do."

Madame nodded her head haughtily, and said—“ Well,

and how have you done it? Have you brought Bijou's collar and cushion ?"

"Yes, madame, everything; and I hope you will be satisfied." She then opened the parcel-and, oh! what beautiful things did she produce! Marie was lost in admiration, for she had never seen anything like it.

Madame Bertin appeared pleased, although, from principle, she here and there found something to find fault with. "Well, and have you brought the bill?" she asked: "you know I like to pay directly, for I am not like some of my rank whom you may work for."

The young girl handed her the bill; but the moment she saw it she flew into a violent passion.

"These charges are much too high!" she exclaimed; "I never heard of such prices! I shall certainly not employ you again, young woman, nor recommend you to any more of my friends, if you charge like this. No; these four francs certainly must be deducted."

"I hope, madame, you will not do that; for indeed I have not overcharged you one farthing; and I assure you I have worked night and day at it."

"Ay, ay," returned Madame Bertin, "you always say so; but it is not the work we pay for it is for the plays, for the dancing, and for the fine dresses, to which you devote your money."

The young woman cast an expressive look at her own neat but simple dress, and said—" Alas, madame, there are six of us in family, and we only live by our needlework, and that but very sparingly."

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Ay, ay, I understand all that sort of excuse; however,