Ursula

thorough probation. His conduct has been such as to make families distrust him and to put obstacles between himself and heiresses which cannot be easily overcome."
    A soft smile came in place of tears on Ursula's sweet face as she said, "Then poverty is good sometimes."
    The doctor could find no answer to such innocence.
    "What has he done, godfather?" she asked.
    "In two years, my treasure, he has incurred one hundred and twenty thousand francs of debt. He has had the folly to get himself locked up in Saint-Pelagie, the debtor's prison; an impropriety which will always be, in these days, a discredit to him. A spendthrift who is willing to plunge his poor mother into poverty and distress might cause his wife, as your poor father did, to die of despair."
    "Don't you think he will do better?" she asked.
    "If his mother pays his debts he will be penniless, and I don't know a worse punishment than to be a nobleman without means."
    This answer made Ursula thoughtful; she dried her tears, and said:—
    "If you can save him, save him, godfather; that service will give you a right to advise him; you can remonstrate—"
    "Yes," said the doctor, imitating her, "and then he can come here, and the old lady will come here, and we shall see them, and—"
    "I was thinking only of him," said Ursula, blushing.
    "Don't think of him, my child; it would be folly," said the doctor gravely. "Madame de Portenduere, who was a Kergarouet, would never consent, even if she had to live on three hundred francs a year, to the marriage of her son, the Vicomte Savinien de Portenduere, with whom?—with Ursula Mirouet, daughter of a bandsman in a regiment, without money, and whose father—alas! I must now tell you all—was the bastard son of an organist, my father-in-law."
    "O godfather! you are right; we are equal only in the sight of God. I will not think of him again—except in my prayers," she said, amid the sobs which this painful revelation excited. "Give him what you meant to give me—what can a poor girl like me want?—ah, in prison, he!—"
    "Offer to God your disappointments, and perhaps he will help us."
    There was silence for some minutes. When Ursula, who at first did not dare to look at her godfather, raised her eyes, her heart was deeply moved to see the tears which were rolling down his withered cheeks. The tears of old men are as terrible as those of children are natural.
    "Oh what is it?" cried Ursula, flinging herself at his feet and kissing his hands. "Are you not sure of me?"
    "I, who longed to gratify all your wishes, it is I who am obliged to cause the first great sorrow of your life!" he said. "I suffer as much as you. I never wept before, except when I lost my children—and, Ursula—Yes," he cried suddenly, "I will do all you desire!"
    Ursula gave him, through her tears a look that was vivid as lightning. She smiled.
    "Let us go into the salon, darling," said the doctor. "Try to keep the secret of all this to yourself," he added, leaving her alone for a moment in his study.
    He felt himself so weak before that heavenly smile that he feared he might say a word of hope and thus mislead her.

CHAPTER X. THE FAMILY OF PORTENDUERE
    Madame de Portenduere was at this moment alone with the abbe in her frigid little salon on the ground floor, having finished the recital of her troubles to the good priest, her only friend. She held in her hand some letters which he had just returned to her after reading them; these letters had brought her troubles to a climax. Seated on her sofa beside a square table covered with the remains of a dessert, the old lady was looking at the abbe, who sat on the other side of the table, doubled up in his armchair and stroking his chin with the gesture common to valets on the stage, mathematicians, and priests,—a sign of profound meditation on a problem that was difficult to solve.
    This little salon, lighted by two windows on the street and finished with a wainscot painted gray, was so damp that the lower panels showed the geometrical cracks of rotten wood when the paint no longer binds it. The red-tiled floor, polished by the old lady's one servant, required, for comfort's sake, before each seat small round mats of brown straw, on one of which the abbe was now resting his feet. The old damask curtains of light green with green flowers were drawn, and the outside blinds had been closed. Two wax candles lighted the table, leaving the rest of the room in semi-obscurity. Is it necessary to say that