ced that he were not
there, she was sad and low-spirited until the following day.

One morning, when Hubert was arranging a dalmatic, a ring at the
door-bell obliged him to go downstairs. It must be a customer; no doubt
an order for some article, as Hubertine and Angelique heard the hum of
voices which came through the doorway at the head of the stairs, which
remained open. Then they looked up in great astonishment; for steps
were mounting, and the embroiderer was bringing someone with him to
the workroom, a most unusual occurrence. And the young girl was quite
overcome as she recognised Felicien. He was dressed simply, like a
journeyman artist, whose hands are white. Since she no longer went to
him he had come to her, after days of vain expectation and of anxious
uncertainty, during which he had constantly said to himself that she did
not yet love him, since she remained hidden from him.

"Look, my dear child, here is something which will be of particular
interest to you," explained Hubert. "Monsieur wishes to give orders for
an exceptional piece of work. And, upon my word, that we might talk of
it at our ease, I preferred that he should come up here at once. This is
my daughter, sir, to whom you must show your drawing."

Neither he nor Hubertine had the slightest suspicion that this was not
the first time the young people had met. They approached them only
from a sentiment of curiosity to see. But Felicien was, like Angelique,
almost stifled with emotion and timidity. As he unrolled the design,
his hands trembled, and he was obliged to speak very slowly to hide the
change in his voice.

"It is to be a mitre for Monseigneur the Bishop. Yes, certain ladies in
the city who wished to make him this present charged me with the drawing
of the different parts, as well as with the superintendence of its
execution. I am a painter of stained glass, but I also occupy myself
a great deal with ancient art. You will see that I have simply
reconstituted a Gothic mitre."

Angelique bent over the great sheet of parchment which he had spread
before her, and started slightly as she exclaimed:

"Oh! it is Saint Agnes."

It was indeed the youthful martyr of but thirteen years of age; the
naked virgin clothed with her hair, that had grown so long only her
little hands and feet were seen from under it, just as she was upon the
pillar at one of the doors of the cathedral; particularly, however, as
one found her in the interior of the