“We will now speak only of thy sister.  Has she been here bestowed without regard to her own wishes, Sigismund?”

“I hope not.  Christine is meek;, but, while neither word nor look betrays the weakness, still she feels the load that crushes us both.  She has long accustomed herself to look at all her own merits through the medium of this debasement, and has set too low a value on her own excellent qualities.  Much, very much depends, in this life, on our own habits of self-estimation, Adelheid; for he who is prepared to admit unworthiness—­I speak not of demerit towards God but towards men—­will soon become accustomed to familiarity with a standard below his just pretensions, and will end perhaps in being the thing he dreaded.  Such has been the consequence of Christine’s knowledge of her birth, for, to her meek spirit, there is an appearance of generosity in overlooking this grand defect, and it has too well prepared her mind to endow the youth with a hundred more of the qualities that are absolutely necessary to her esteem, but which I fear exist only in her own warm fancy.”

“This is touching on the most difficult branch of human knowledge,” returned Adelheid, smiling sweetly on the agitated brother; “a just appreciation of ourselves.  If there is danger of setting too low a value on our merits, there is also some danger of setting too high; though I perfectly comprehend the difference you would make between vulgar vanity, and that self-respect which is certainly in some degree necessary to success.  But one, like her thou hast described, would scarce yield her affections without good reason to think them well bestowed.”

“Adelheid, thou, who hast never felt the world’s contempt, cannot understand how winning respect and esteem can be made to those who pine beneath its weight!  My sister hath so long accustomed herself to think meanly of her hopes, that the appearance of liberality and justice in this youth would have been sufficient of itself to soften her feelings in his favor.  I cannot say I think—­for Christine will soon be his wife—­but I will say, I fear that the simple fact of his choosing one that the world persecutes has given him a value in her eyes he might not otherwise have possessed.”

“Thou dost not appear to approve of thy sister’s choice?”

“I know the details of the disgusting bargain better than poor Christine,” answered the young man, speaking between his teeth, like one who repressed bitter emotion.  “I was privy to the greedy exactions on the one side, and to the humiliating concessions on the other.  Even money could not buy this boon for Balthazar’s child, without a condition that the ineffaceable stigma of her birth should be for ever concealed.”