“How about my lips?”

“Cherries are pale beside them.”

“And my teeth, if you please?”

“Grains of rice are not as white.”

“But my ears, should I be ashamed of them?”

“Yes, if you would be ashamed of two little pink shells among your pretty curls.”

And so on endlessly; she delighted, he still more charmed, for his words came from the depth of his heart and she had the pleasure of hearing herself praised, he the delight of seeing her.  So their love grew more deep and tender every hour, and the day that he asked her to marry him she blushed certainly, but it was not with anger.  But, unluckily, the news of their happiness reached the wicked queen, whose only pleasure was to torment others, and Jacinta more than anyone else, on account of her beauty.

A little while before the marriage Jacinta was walking in the orchard one evening, when an old crone approached, asking for alms, but suddenly jumped back with a shriek as if she had stepped on a toad, crying:  “Heavens, what do I see?”

“What is the matter, my good woman?  What is it you see?  Tell me.”

“The ugliest creature I ever beheld.”

“Then you are not looking at me,” said Jacinta, with innocent vanity.

“Alas! yes, my poor child, it is you.  I have been a long time on this earth, but never have I met anyone so hideous as you!”

“What! am I ugly?”

“A hundred times uglier than I can tell you.”

“But my eyes—­”

“They are a sort of dirty gray; but that would be nothing if you had not such an outrageous squint!”

“My complexion—­”

“It looks as if you had rubbed coal-dust on your forehead and cheeks.”

“My mouth—­”

“It is pale and withered, like a faded flower.”

“My teeth—­”

“If the beauty of teeth is to be large and yellow, I never saw any so beautiful as yours.”

“But, at least, my ears—­”

“They are so big, so red, and so misshapen, under your coarse elf-locks, that they are revolting.  I am not pretty myself, but I should die of shame if mine were like them.”  After this last blow, the old witch, having repeated what the queen had taught her, hobbled off, with a harsh croak of laughter, leaving poor Jacinta dissolved in tears, prone on the ground beneath the apple-trees.

* * * * *

Nothing could divert her mind from her grief.  “I am ugly—­I am ugly,” she repeated constantly.  It was in vain that Valentin assured and reassured her with the most solemn oaths.  “Let me alone; you are lying out of pity.  I understand it all now; you never loved me; you are only sorry for me.  The beggar woman had no interest in deceiving me.  It is only too true—­I am ugly.  I do not see how you can endure the sight of me.”