Ursula

Bougival.
    "Tell Ursula to come and speak to me," he said, seating himself in the center of his library.
    The girl came; she ran up to him and kissed him. The doctor took her on his knee, where she sat contentedly, mingling her soft fair curls with the white hair of her old friend.
    "Do you want something, godfather?"
    "Yes; but promise me, on your salvation, to answer frankly, without evasion, the questions that I shall put to you."
    Ursula colored to the temples.
    "Oh! I'll ask nothing that you cannot speak of," he said, noticing how the bashfulness of young love clouded the hitherto childlike purity of the girl's blue eyes.
    "Ask me, godfather."
    "What thought was in your mind when you ended your prayers last evening, and what time was it when you said them."
    "It was a quarter-past or half-past nine."
    "Well, repeat your last prayer."
    The girl fancied that her voice might convey her faith to the sceptic; she slid from his knee and knelt down, clasping her hands fervently; a brilliant light illumined her face as she turned it on the old man and said:—
    "What I asked of God last night I asked again this morning, and I shall ask it till he vouchsafes to grant it."
    Then she repeated her prayer with new and still more powerful expression. To her great astonishment her godfather took the last words from her mouth and finished the prayer.
    "Good, Ursula," said the doctor, taking her again on his knee. "When you laid your head on the pillow and went to sleep did you think to yourself, 'That dear godfather; I wonder who is playing backgammon with him in Paris'?"
    Ursula sprang up as if the last trumpet had sounded in her ears. She gave a cry of terror; her eyes, wide open, gazed at the old man with awful fixity.
    "Who are you, godfather? From whom do you get such power?" she asked, imagining that in his desire to deny God he had made some compact with the devil.
    "What seeds did you plant yesterday in the garden?"
    "Mignonette, sweet-peas, balsams—"
    "And the last were larkspur?"
    She fell on her knees.
    "Do not terrify me!" she exclaimed. "Oh you must have been here—you were here, were you not?"
    "Am I not always with you?" replied the doctor, evading her question, to save the strain on the young girl's mind. "Let us go to your room."
    "Your legs are trembling," she said.
    "Yes, I am confounded, as it were."
    "Can it be that you believe in God?" she cried, with artless joy, letting fall the tears that gathered in her eyes.
    The old man looked round the simple but dainty little room he had given to his Ursula. On the floor was a plain green carpet, very inexpensive, which she herself kept exquisitely clean; the walls were hung with a gray paper strewn with roses and green leaves; at the windows, which looked to the court, were calico curtains edged with a band of some pink material; between the windows and beneath a tall mirror was a pier-table topped with marble, on which stood a Sevres vase in which she put her nosegays; opposite the chimney was a little bureau-desk of charming marquetry. The bed, of chintz, with chintz curtains lined with pink, was one of those duchess beds so common in the eighteenth century, which had a tuft of carved feathers at the top of each of the four posts, which were fluted on the sides. An old clock, inclosed in a sort of monument made of tortoise-shell inlaid with arabesques of ivory, decorated the mantelpiece, the marble shelf of which, with the candlesticks and the mirror in a frame painted in cameo on a gray ground, presented a remarkable harmony of color, tone, and style. A large wardrobe, the doors of which were inlaid with landscapes in different woods (some having a green tint which are no longer to be found for sale) contained, no doubt, her linen and her dresses. The air of the room was redolent of heaven. The precise arrangement of everything showed a sense of order, a feeling for harmony, which would certainly have influenced any one, even a Minoret-Levrault. It was plain that the things about her were dear to Ursula, and that she loved a room which contained, as it were, her childhood and the whole of her girlish life.
    Looking the room well over that he might seem to have a reason for his visit, the doctor saw at once how the windows looked into those of Madame de Portenduere. During the night he had meditated as to the course he ought to pursue with Ursula about his discovery of this dawning passion. To question her now would commit him to some course. He must either