“And is she very pretty?”

“Dark hair—­the figure of a nymph—­fair as a lily—­blue eyes, as large as that—­and as mild, as good as your own.”

“You flatter me, Agricola.”

“No, no, it is Angela that I flatter—­for that’s her name.  What a pretty one!  Is it not, my good Mother Bunch?”

“A charming name,” said the poor girl, contrasting bitterly that graceful appellation with her own nickname, which the thoughtless Agricola applied to her without thinking of it.  Then she resumed, with fearful calmness:  “Angela? yes, it is a charming name!”

“Well, then! imagine to yourself, that this name is not only suited to her face, but to her heart.  In a word, I believe her heart to be almost equal to yours.”

“She has my eyes—­she has my heart,” said Mother Bunch, smiling.  “It is singular, how like we are.”

Agricola did not perceive the irony of despair contained in these words.  He resumed, with a tenderness as sincere as it was inexorable:  “Do you think, my good girl, that I could ever have fallen seriously in love with any one, who had not in character, heart, and mind, much of you?”

“Come, brother,” said the girl, smiling—­yes, the unfortunate creature had the strength to smile; “come, brother, you are in a gallant vein to day.  Where did you make the acquaintance of this beautiful young person?”

“She is only the sister of one of my mates.  Her mother is the head laundress in our common dwelling, and as she was in want of assistance, and we always take in preference the relations of members of the association, Mrs. Bertin (that’s the mother’s name) sent for her daughter from Lille, where she had been stopping with one of her aunts, and, for the last five days, she has been in the laundry.  The first evening I saw her, I passed three hours, after work was over, in talking with her, and her mother and brother; and the next day, I felt that my heart was gone; the day after that, the feeling was only stronger—­and now I am quite mad about her, and resolved on marriage—­according as you shall decide.  Do not be surprised at this; everything depends upon you.  I shall only ask my father and mother’s leave, after I have yours.”

“I do not understand you, Agricola.”

“You know the utter confidence I have in the incredible instinct of your heart.  Many times, you have said to me:  ’Agricola, love this person, love that person, have confidence in that other’—­and never yet were you deceived.  Well! you must now render me the same service.  You will ask permission of Mdlle. de Cardoville to absent yourself; I will take you to the factory:  I have spoken of you to Mrs. Benin and her daughter, as of a beloved sister; and, according to your impression at sight of Angela, I will declare myself or not.  This may be childishness, or superstition, on my part; but I am so made.”

“Be it so,” answered Mother Bunch, with heroic courage; “I will see Mdlle.  Angela; I will tell you what I think of her—­and that, mind you, sincerely.”