only see me now and then; she will have you and your
affection always present. Each day some new tie between you and her. You
two will share every joy, every sorrow. Your children playing at your
feet, and reflecting the features of both parents, will make you one.
Your hearts will melt together in that blessed union which raises earth
so near to heaven; and then you will wonder you could ever be jealous of
poor Josephine, who must never hope--ah, me!"

Edouard, wrapped up in himself, mistook Josephine's emotion at the
picture she had drawn of conjugal love. He soothed her, and vowed upon
his honor he never would separate Rose from her.

"Madame Raynal," said he, "you are an angel, and I am a fiend. Jealousy
must be the meanest of all sentiments. I never will be jealous again,
above all, of you, sweet angel. Why, you are my sister as well as hers,
and she has a right to love you, for I love you myself."

"You make me very happy when you talk so," sighed Josephine. "Peace is
made?"

"Never again to be broken. I will go and ask her pardon. What is the
matter now?"

For Jacintha was cackling very loud, and dismissing with ignominy two
beggars, male and female.

She was industry personified, and had no sympathy with mendicity. In
vain the couple protested, Heaven knows with what truth, that they were
not beggars, but mechanics out of work. "March! tramp!" was Jacintha's
least word. She added, giving the rein to her imagination, "I'll loose
the dog." The man moved away, the woman turned appealingly to Edouard.
He and Josephine came towards the group. She had got a sort of large
hood, and in that hood she carried an infant on her shoulders. Josephine
inspected it. "It looks sickly, poor little thing," said she.

"What can you expect, young lady?" said the woman. "Its mother had to
rise and go about when she ought to have been in her bed, and now she
has not enough to give it."

"Oh, dear!" cried Josephine. "Jacintha, give them some food and a nice
bottle of wine."

"That I will," cried Jacintha, changing her tone with courtier-like
alacrity. "I did not see she was nursing."

Josephine put a franc into the infant's hand; the little fingers closed
on it with that instinct of appropriation, which is our first and often
our last sentiment. Josephine smiled lovingly on the child, and the
child seeing that gave a small crow.

"Bless it," said Josephine, and thereupon her lovely head reared itself
like a snake's, and