carried away by his feelings, stretches one hand to the husband, and taking the wife’s hand with the other, he kisses it rapturously and bathes it with his tears.  Everybody is charmed with the simple enthusiasm of the young man; but the daughter, more deeply touched than the rest by this evidence of his kindly heart, is reminded of Telemachus weeping for the woes of Philoctetus.  She looks at him shyly, the better to study his countenance; there is nothing in it to give the lie to her comparison.

His easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners are lively but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and his expression more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep, is ready to mingle her tears with his.  With so good an excuse for tears, she is restrained by a secret shame; she blames herself already for the tears which tremble on her eyelids, as though it were wrong to weep for one’s family.

Her mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down to supper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her on some errand.  The daughter returns directly, but so little recovered that her distress is apparent to all.  Her mother says gently, “Sophy, control yourself; will you never cease to weep for the misfortunes of your parents?  Why should you, who are their chief comfort, be more sensitive than they are themselves?”

At the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start.  His attention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at once and looks eagerly at one who dares to bear it.  Sophy!  Are you the Sophy whom my heart is seeking?  Is it you that I love?  He looks at her; he watches her with a sort of fear and self-distrust.  The face is not quite what he pictured; he cannot tell whether he likes it more or less.  He studies every feature, he watches every movement, every gesture; he has a hundred fleeting interpretations for them all; he would give half his life if she would but speak.  He looks at me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions and reproaches.  His every glance seems to say, “Guide me while there is yet time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived, I shall never get over it.”

There is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings than Emile.  How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatest disturbance he has ever experienced, and under the eyes of four spectators who are all watching him, while she who seems to heed him least is really most occupied with him.  His uneasiness does not escape the keen eyes of Sophy; his own eyes tell her that she is its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not yet love; what matter?  He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will be very unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity.

Mothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too.  Sophy’s mother smiles at the success of our schemes.  She reads the hearts of the young people; she sees that the time has come to secure the heart of this new Telemachus; she makes her daughter speak.  Her daughter, with her native sweetness, replies in a timid tone which makes all the more impression.  At the first sound of her voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy herself; there can be no doubt about it.  If it were not so, it would be too late to deny it.