“You know very well, Agricola,” said the sempstress, blushing up to the eyes, “that I ought not to go out with you and your mother again.”

“Why not, madame?  May I ask, without impropriety, the cause of this refusal?” said Agricola gayly.

The poor girl smiled sadly, and replied, “Because I will not expose you to a quarrel on my account, Agricola.”

“Forgive me,” said Agricola, in a tone of sincere grief, and he struck his forehead vexedly.

To this Mother Bunch alluded sometimes, but very rarely, for she observed punctilious discretion.  The girl had gone out with Agricola and his mother.  Such occasions were, indeed, holidays for her.  Many days and nights had she toiled hard to procure a decent bonnet and shawl, that she might not do discredit to her friends.  The five or six days of holidays, thus spent arm in arm with him whom she adored in secret, formed the sum of her happy days.

Taking their last walk, a coarse, vulgar man elbowed her so rudely that the poor girl could not refrain from a cry of terror, and the man retorted it by saying,-"What are you rolling your hump in my way for, stoopid?”

Agricola, like his father, had the patience which force and courage give to the truly brave; but he was extremely quick when it became necessary to avenge an insult.  Irritated at the vulgarity of this man, Agricola left his mother’s arm to inflict on the brute, who was of his own age, size, and force, two vigorous blows, such as the powerful arm and huge fist of a blacksmith never before inflicted on human face.  The villain attempted to return it, and Agricola repeated the correction, to the amusement of the crowd, and the fellow slunk away amidst a deluge of hisses.  This adventure made Mother Bunch say she would not go out with Agricola again, in order to save him any occasion of quarrel.  We may conceive the blacksmith’s regret at having thus unwittingly revived the memory of this circumstance,—­more painful, alas! for Mother Bunch than Agricola could imagine, for she loved him passionately, and her infirmity had been the cause of that quarrel.  Notwithstanding his strength and resolution, Agricola was childishly sensitive; and, thinking how painful that thought must be to the poor girl, a large tear filled his eyes, and, holding out his hands, he said, in a brotherly tone, “Forgive my heedlessness!  Come, kiss me.”  And he gave her thin, pale cheeks two hearty kisses.

The poor girl’s lips turned pale at this cordial caress; and her heart beat so violently that she was obliged to lean against the corner of the table.

“Come, you forgive me, do you not?” said Agricola.

“Yes! yes!” she said, trying to subdue her emotion; “but the recollection of that quarrel pains me—­I was so alarmed on your account; if the crowd had sided with that man!”

“Alas!” said Frances, coming to the sewing-girl’s relief, without knowing it, “I was never so afraid in all my life!”