leries, not bearing--not daring--to return to his
attic, where his tyrant would pelt him with questions and wring his
secret from him.

Hortense's adorer conceived of groups and statues by the hundred; he
felt strong enough to hew the marble himself, like Canova, who was
also a feeble man, and nearly died of it. He was transfigured by
Hortense, who was to him inspiration made visible.

"Now then," said the Baroness to her daughter, "what does all this
mean?"

"Well, dear mamma, you have just seen Cousin Lisbeth's lover, who now,
I hope, is mine. But shut your eyes, know nothing. Good Heavens! I was
to keep it all from you, and I cannot help telling you everything----"

"Good-bye, children!" said the Baron, kissing his wife and daughter;
"I shall perhaps go to call on the Nanny, and from her I shall hear a
great deal about our young man."

"Papa, be cautious!" said Hortense.

"Oh! little girl!" cried the Baroness when Hortense had poured out her
poem, of which the morning's adventure was the last canto, "dear
little girl, Artlessness will always be the artfulest puss on earth!"

Genuine passions have an unerring instinct. Set a greedy man before a
dish of fruit and he will make no mistake, but take the choicest even
without seeing it. In the same way, if you allow a girl who is well
brought up to choose a husband for herself, if she is in a position to
meet the man of her heart, rarely will she blunder. The act of nature
in such cases is known as love at first sight; and in love, first
sight is practically second sight.

The Baroness' satisfaction, though disguised under maternal dignity,
was as great as her daughter's; for, of the three ways of marrying
Hortense of which Crevel had spoken, the best, as she opined, was
about to be realized. And she regarded this little drama as an answer
by Providence to her fervent prayers.

Mademoiselle Fischer's galley slave, obliged at last to go home,
thought he might hide his joy as a lover under his glee as an artist
rejoicing over his first success.

"Victory! my group is sold to the Duc d'Herouville, who is going to
give me some commissions," cried he, throwing the twelve hundred
francs in gold on the table before the old maid.

He had, as may be supposed concealed Hortense's purse; it lay next to
his heart.

"And a very good thing too," said Lisbeth. "I was working myself to
death. You see, child, money comes in slowly in the business you have
taken up, for