push your claims to the
canonry, and you'll see how cordially he will receive you."

Feeble folk are as easily reassured as they are frightened. So the
poor abbe, dazzled at the prospect of living with Madame de Listomere,
forgot the destruction, now completed, of the happiness he had so long
desired, and so delightfully enjoyed. But at night before going to
sleep, the distress of a man to whom the fuss of moving and the
breaking up of all his habits was like the end of the world, came upon
him, and he racked his brains to imagine how he could ever find such a
good place for his book-case as the gallery in the old maid's house.
Fancying he saw his books scattered about, his furniture defaced, his
regular life turned topsy-turvy, he asked himself for the thousandth
time why the first year spent in Mademoiselle Gamard's house had been
so sweet, the second so cruel. His troubles were a pit in which his
reason floundered. The canonry seemed to him small compensation for so
much misery, and he compared his life to a stocking in which a single
dropped stitch resulted in destroying the whole fabric. Mademoiselle
Salomon remained to him. But, alas, in losing his old illusions the
poor priest dared not trust in any later friendship.

In the "citta dolente" of spinsterhood we often meet, especially in
France, with women whose lives are a sacrifice nobly and daily offered
to noble sentiments. Some remain proudly faithful to a heart which
death tore from them; martyrs of love, they learn the secrets of
womanhood only though their souls. Others obey some family pride
(which in our days, and to our shame, decreases steadily); these
devote themselves to the welfare of a brother, or to orphan nephews;
they are mothers while remaining virgins. Such old maids attain to the
highest heroism of their sex by consecrating all feminine feelings to
the help of sorrow. They idealize womanhood by renouncing the rewards
of woman's destiny, accepting its pains. They live surrounded by the
splendour of their devotion, and men respectfully bow the head before
their faded features. Mademoiselle de Sombreuil was neither wife nor
maid; she was and ever will be a living poem. Mademoiselle Salomon de
Villenoix belonged to the race of these heroic beings. Her devotion
was religiously sublime, inasmuch as it won her no glory after being,
for years, a daily agony. Beautiful and young, she loved and was
beloved; her lover lost his reason. For five years she