Ursula

kingdom, led by this pure heart, which, to interpret its feelings, borrowed the power of the only art that speaks to thought by thought, without the help of words, or color, or form. Candor, openness of heart have the same power over a man that childhood has; the same charm, the same irresistible seductions. Ursula was never more honest and candid than at this moment, when she was born again into a new life.
    The abbe came to tear Savinien from his dream, requesting him to take a fourth hand at whist. Ursula went on playing; the heirs departed, all except Desire, who was resolved to find out the intentions of his uncle and the viscount and Ursula.
    "You have as much talent as soul, mademoiselle," he said, when the young girl closed the piano and sat down beside her godfather. "Who is your master?"
    "A German, living close to the Rue Dauphine on the quai Conti," said the doctor. "If he had not given Ursula a lesson every day during her stay in Paris he would have been here to-day."
    "He is not only a great musician," said Ursula, "but a man of adorable simplicity of nature."
    "Those lessons must cost a great deal," remarked Desire.
    The players smiled ironically. When the game was over the doctor, who had hitherto seemed anxious and pensive, turned to Savinien with the air of a man who fulfills a duty.
    "Monsieur," he said, "I am grateful for the feeling which leads you to make me this early visit; but your mother attributes unworthy and underhand motives to what I have done, and I should give her the right to call them true if I did not request you to refrain from coming here, in spite of the honor your visits are to me, and the pleasure I should otherwise feel in cultivating your society. Tell your mother that if I do not beg her, in my niece's name and my own, to do us the honor of dining here next Sunday it is because I am very certain that she would find herself indisposed on that day."
    The old man held out his hand to the young viscount, who pressed it respectfully, saying:—
    "You are quite right, monsieur."
    He then withdrew; but not without a bow to Ursula, in which there was more of sadness than disappointment.
    Desire left the house at the same time; but he found it impossible to exchange even a word with the young nobleman, who rushed into his own house precipitately.

CHAPTER XIII. BETROTHAL OF HEARTS
    This rupture between the Portendueres and Doctor Minoret gave talk among the heirs for a week; they did homage to the genius of Dionis, and regarded their inheritance as rescued.
    So, in an age when ranks are leveled, when the mania for equality puts everybody on one footing and threatens to destroy all bulwarks, even military subordination,—that last refuge of power in France, where passions have now no other obstacles to overcome than personal antipathies, or differences of fortune,—the obstinacy of an old-fashioned Breton woman and the dignity of Doctor Minoret created a barrier between these lovers, which was to end, as such obstacles often do, not in destroying but in strengthening love. To an ardent man a woman's value is that which she costs him; Savinien foresaw a struggle, great efforts, many uncertainties, and already the young girl was rendered dearer to him; he was resolved to win her. Perhaps our feelings obey the laws of nature as to the lastingness of her creations; to a long life a long childhood.
    The next morning, when they woke, Ursula and Savinien had the same thought. An intimate understanding of this kind would create love if it were not already its most precious proof. When the young girl parted her curtains just far enough to let her eyes take in Savinien's window, she saw the face of her lover above the fastening of his. When one reflects on the immense services that windows render to lovers it seems natural and right that a tax should be levied on them. Having thus protested against her godfather's harshness, Ursula dropped the curtain and opened her window to close the outer blinds, through which she could continue to see without being seen herself. Seven or eight times during the day she went up to her room, always to find the young viscount writing, tearing up what he had written, and then writing again—to her, no doubt!
    The next morning when she woke La Bougival gave her the following letter:—
    To Mademoiselle Ursula:
    Mademoiselle,—I do not conceal from myself the distrust a young man inspires when he has placed himself in the position from which your godfather's