employs to waken love in the heart of a young girl is ignorant of his work and leaves it unfinished.  Marguerite bowed confusedly; her true farewell was in the glance which seemed unwilling to lose so pure and lovely a vision.  Like a child she wanted her melody.  Their parting took place at the foot of the old staircase near the parlor; and when Marguerite re-entered the room she watched the uncle and the nephew till the street-door closed upon them.

Madame Claes had been so occupied with the serious matters which caused her conference with the abbe that she did not on this occasion observe her daughter’s manner.  When Monsieur de Solis came again to the house on the occasion of her illness, she was too violently agitated to notice the color that rushed into Marguerite’s face and betrayed the tumult of a virgin heart conscious of its first joy.  By the time the old abbe was announced, Marguerite had taken up her sewing and appeared to give it such attention that she bowed to the uncle and nephew without looking at them.  Monsieur Claes mechanically returned their salutation and left the room with the air of a man called away by his occupations.  The good Dominican sat down beside Madame Claes and looked at her with one of those searching glances by which he penetrated the minds of others; the sight of Monsieur Claes and his wife was enough to make him aware of a catastrophe.

“My children,” said the mother, “go into the garden; Marguerite, show Emmanuel your father’s tulips.”

Marguerite, half abashed, took Felicie’s arm and looked at the young man, who blushed and caught up little Jean to cover his confusion.  When all four were in the garden, Felicie and Jean ran to the other side, leaving Marguerite, who, conscious that she was alone with young de Solis, led him to the pyramid of tulips, arranged precisely in the same manner year after year by Lemulquinier.

“Do you love tulips?” asked Marguerite, after standing for a moment in deep silence,—­a silence Emmanuel seemed little disposed to break.

“Mademoiselle, these flowers are beautiful, but to love them we must perhaps have a taste of them, and know how to understand their beauties.  They dazzle me.  Constant study in the gloomy little chamber in which I live, close to my uncle, makes me prefer those flowers that are softer to the eye.”

Saying these words he glanced at Marguerite; but the look, full as it was of confused desires, contained no allusion to the lily whiteness, the sweet serenity, the tender coloring which made her face a flower.

“Do you work very hard?” she asked, leading him to a wooden seat with a back, painted green.  “Here,” she continued, “the tulips are not so close; they will not tire your eyes.  Yes, you are right, those colors are dazzling; they give pain.”

“Do I work hard?” replied the young man after a short silence, as he smoothed the gravel with his foot.  “Yes; I work at many things.  My uncle wished to make me a priest.”