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N a picturesque cottage of a retired straggling village in the province of La Vendée, dwelt an aged woman and her granddaughter, Margot. Margot was amiable, cheerful, industrious, kind; she possessed, in short, every feminine gift save one. That one was beauty! She was so ugly that the neighbours had given her the name of la vilaine tête. But Margot was a good girl, and did not murmur at her deprivation. On the contrary, she was thankful for her perfect health and strength. She thought little of her appearance, or, indeed, of herself at all, being always so much occupied with her duty. She was the best savonneuse in the village. She washed the linen of the neighbouring château, and her own and her grandmother's caps and kerchiefs were conspicuous for their whiteness and dainty get-up. In spite of her ugliness, everyone loved Margot. It is true that she was called la vilaine tête, but nicknames among rustics are not necessarily tokens of ill-nature or dislike. Margot bore the designation with perfect equanimity, for she had another, pleasanter one. She was also called: The good Margot.

was eighteen years of age when the peace of her village was disturbed by the grim tocsin of war. It was the stirring time of the great Revolution. Every day tragic stories of blood and flame reached the ears of the villagers, but they never dreamed that the disturbances would pierce even to their sheltered retreat. One memorable day, however, they were startled by a summons from their seigneur and the curé calling them to the aid of the Royalists. Thenceforward no sounds of joy were heard in that once happy spot, unless it were the savage shouts of occasional triumph. The church bell, no longer a message of peace, called now to blood and battle. The sports and labours of the field were abandoned for fiercer pursuits. The cloud of anxiety darkened every face. Each day brought new events: some fresh encounter, some impending danger, some hard-earned victory. Many a gallant youth of the village lay unburied on a distant battlefield; others, after every action, returned home to die. As the Vendéan women were forbidden to follow the army, most of them remained and performed all the duties of guard-mounting and patrolling like experienced soldiers. Some, however, of the more adventurous, disguised as men, girded on swords and mingled in the ranks, leaving their infants and aged parents to the care of those who, like our gentle-natured heroine, stayed at home. The church had been turned into a hospital, wherein, under the direction of the curé and of a surgeon, tender-hearted and tenderhanded women ministered to the wounded victims of the war. One of the most loving and skilful of this noble army of nurses was Margot.