was happy with, and proud
of, him! But he must not think of it now, they were too poor; and then,
would Maria love him?

He often asked himself that question, and with uneasiness. In his own
heart he felt that the childish intimacy had become a sincere affection,
a real love. He had no reason to hope that the same transformation had
taken place in the young girl's heart. She always treated him very
affectionately, but rather like a good comrade, and she was no more
stirred by his presence now than she was when she had lain in wait with
him behind the old green sofa to hunt Father Gerard's battered fur hat.

Amedee had most naturally taken the Gerard family into his confidence
regarding his work. After the Sunday dinner they would seat themselves
around the table where Mamma Gerard had just served the coffee, and the
young man would read to his friends, in a grave, slow voice, the poem he
had composed during the week. A painter having the taste and inclination
for interior scenes, like the old masters of the Dutch school, would have
been stirred by the contemplation of this group of four persons in
mourning. The poet, with his manuscript in his right hand and marking the
syllables with a rhythmical movement of his left, was seated between the
two sisters. But while Louise--a little too thin and faded for her
years--fixes her attentive eyes upon the reader and listens with avidity,
the pretty Maria is listless and sits with a bored little face, gazing
mechanically at the other side of the table. Mother Gerard knits with a
serious air and her spectacles perched upon the tip of her nose.

Alas! during these readings Louise was the only one who heaved sighs of
emotion; and sometimes even great tear-drops would tremble upon her
lashes. She was the only one who could find just the right delicate word
with which to congratulate the poet, and show that she had understood and
been touched by his verses. At the most Maria would sometimes accord the
young poet, still agitated by the declamation of his lines, a careless
"It is very pretty!" with a commonplace smile of thanks.

She did not care for poetry, then? Later, if he married her, would she
remain indifferent to her husband's intellectual life, insensible even to
the glory that he might reap? How sad it was for Amedee to have to ask
himself that question!

Soon Maria inspired a new fear within him. Maurice and his mother had
been already three months in Italy, and exceptin