gilt bronze, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a mahogany secretary, announced that the inhabitants of this apartment enjoyed not only the necessaries, but some of the luxuries of life.  Angela, who, from this time, might be called Agricola’s betrothed, justified in every point the flattering portrait which the smith had drawn of her in his interview with poor Mother Bunch.  The charming girl, seventeen years of age at most, dressed with as much simplicity as neatness, was seated by the side of her mother.  When Agricola entered, she blushed slightly at seeing him.

“Mademoiselle,” said Agricola, “I have come to keep my promise, if your mother has no objection.”

“Certainly, M. Agricola,” answered the mother of the young girl cordially.  “She would not go over the Common Dwelling-house with her father, her brother, or me, because she wished to have that pleasure with you today.  It is quite right that you, who can talk so well, should do the honors of the house to the new-comer.  She has been waiting for you an hour, and with such impatience!”

“Pray excuse me, mademoiselle,” said Agricola, gayly; “in thinking of the pleasure of seeing you, I forgot the hour.  That is my only excuse.”

“Oh, mother!” said the young girl, in a tone of mild reproach, and becoming red as a cherry, “why did you say that?”

“Is it true, yes or no?  I do not blame you for it; on the contrary.  Go with M. Agricola, child, and he will tell you, better than I can, what all the workmen of the factory owe to M, Hardy.”

“M.  Agricola,” said Angela, tying the ribbons of her pretty cap, “what a pity that your good little adopted sister is not with us.”

“Mother Bunch?—­yes, you are right, mademoiselle; but that is only a pleasure put off, and the visit she paid us yesterday will not be the last.”

Having embraced her mother, the girl took Agricola’s arm, and they went out together.

“Dear me, M. Agricola,” said Angela; “if you knew how much I was surprised on entering this fine house, after being accustomed to see so much misery amongst the poor workmen in our country, and in which I too have had my share, whilst here everybody seems happy and contented.  It is really like fairy-land; I think I am in a dream, and when I ask my mother the explanation of these wonders, she tells me, ’M.  Agricola will explain it all to you.’”

“Do you know why I am so happy to undertake that delightful task, mademoiselle?” said Agricola, with an accent at once grave and tender.  “Nothing could be more in season.”

“Why so, M. Agricola?”

“Because, to show you this house, to make you acquainted with all the resources of our association, is to be able to say to you:  ’Here, the workman, sure of the present, sure of the future, is not, like so many of his poor brothers, obliged to renounce the sweetest want of the heart—­the desire of choosing a companion for life—­in the fear of uniting misery to misery."’