“’Dark-haired—­the figure of a nymph—­fair as a lily—­with blue eyes—­as large as that—­and almost as mild as your own.’

“That is the portrait he drew of her.  Poor Agricola! how would he have suffered, had he known that every one of his words was tearing my heart.  Never did I so strongly feel the deep commiseration and tender pity, inspired by a good, affectionate being, who, in the sincerity of his ignorance, gives you your death-wound with a smile.  We do not blame him—­no—­we pity him to the full extent of the grief that he would feel on learning the pain he had caused me.  It is strange! but never did Agricola appear to me more handsome than this morning.  His manly countenance was slightly agitated, as he spoke of the uneasiness of that pretty young lady.  As I listened to him describing the agony of a woman who runs the risk of ruin for the man she loves, I felt my heart beat violently, my hands were burning, a soft languor floated over me—­Ridiculous folly!  As if I had any right to feel thus!

“I remember that, while he spoke, I cast a rapid glance at the glass.  I felt proud that I was so well dressed; he had not even remarked it; but no matter—­it seemed to me that my cap became me, that my hair shone finely, my gaze beamed mild—­I found Agricola so handsome, that I almost began to think myself less ugly—­no doubt, to excuse myself in my own eyes for daring to love him.  After all, what happened to-day would have happened one day or another!  Yes, that is consoling—­like the thoughts that death is nothing, because it must come at last—­to those who are in love with life!  I have been always preserved from suicide—­the last resource of the unfortunate, who prefer trusting in God to remaining amongst his creatures—­by the sense of duty.  One must not only think of self.  And I reflected also’God is good—­always good—­since the most wretched beings find opportunities for love and devotion.’  How is it that I, so weak and poor, have always found means to be helpful and useful to some one?

“This very day I felt tempted to make an end with life—­Agricola and his mother had no longer need of me.—­Yes, but the unfortunate creatures whom Mdlle. de Cardoville has commissioned me to watch over?—­but my benefactress herself, though she has affectionately reproached me with the tenacity of my suspicions in regard to that man?  I am more than ever alarmed for her—­I feel that she is more than ever in danger—­more than ever—­I have faith in the value of my presence near her.  Hence, I must live.  Live—­to go to-morrow to see this girl, whom Agricola passionately loves?  Good heaven! why have I always known grief, and never hate?  There must be a bitter pleasure in hating.  So many people hate!—­Perhaps I may hate this girl—­Angela, as he called her, when he said, with so much simplicity:  ‘A charming name, is it not, Mother Bunch?’ Compare this name, which recalls an idea so full of grace, with the ironical symbol of my witch’s