her. The poor fellow, it is well he is not here to have
overheard you. An orphan girl: true, as you say, I have an orphan
girl,--or one that passes for such; a girl I love, a ward, a
charming child, yonder at Stillyside. Were I disposed to praise
her I might say she is the Mountain's maid; the Dryad of its woods,
a grace, a goddess, fairer than Diana, and far purer, for one may
guess the fool Diana made of that poor boy, Endymion. But what
concerning my ward, sir, my most immaculate lady?"

"Would you forbid my son access to her?" enquired the seigneur.

"Ah! you wish for an injunction;" said the advocate; "show me cause.
I have, sir--as you seem aware--a ward dwelling yonder at my seat
at Stillyside;--a place I sometimes visit; a sort of shrine, a kind
of hermitage or chapel, wherein two devotees, two nun-like, holy
women consume the hours; leading there, pious, penitential lives,
making each day a sort of hallowed tide, and every eve a vigil."

"You are humorous," replied the seigneur. "Excuse me, I am sorry,
but it were best that I should speak plainly. I would not wish to
see your ward dishonored."

"Dishonored! not a seigneur, nor a seigneur's son dare dream of
such a consummation, nor, daring so to dream, could compass it,"
cried the advocate, growing crimson. "Yet this is kind of you;" he
added, bowing as if deeply grateful;--"and yet," he continued,
"there can be no fear of an offence: is not your son a clergyman?
for, if he be, and they confess to him anything worse than to have
admitted him to their confidence--why, sir, he shall be allowed to
enter, and shrive them when he chooses;" and after a momentary
silence, "Fie! fie!" he resumed, rolling in his chair; "'the fool
hath said in his heart there is no God,' and the wise man of
Mainville, who has been all his life looking for purity in a
petticoat, says 'there is no virtue in woman.' But I say, both
these oracles are in the wrong; there is not only a Divinity, but
there are women too who are virtuous. This is a clumsy jest, sir.
My ward be dishonored by your son? Yes, when the diamond can be
cut with a feather. Monsieur Montigny, a tempest is as harmless as
a breath, when that tempest is being hurled against the rock; a
breath is even as effectual as is a tempest, when that breath is
puffed against the dust. So buzzing blandishments of sighing fops,
may blow the frail flowerets from weak, wanton natures; whilst
vehement vows of otherwise most honorable