She laid her hand gently upon mine, and looking up at me with a spring-day face, with bright tears and saddened smiles, she said, “The book and the violet—do not, do not, dear Louis, think me so selfish as to be jealous in the least degree of your love for poor Louise. We will often talk of her, and when we are very, very happy ourselves, as I am sure we shall be, we will think of her, and mourning for her sad and early fate, will feel our spirits chastened, and not drain the cup of happiness too eagerly.” I would have given worlds to have been in some dim, secluded place, where I might have thrown my arms around her, and pressed her to my heart, and told her all I felt; but I dared do no more than clasp her hand in mine in mute confirmation of the pledge her words implied. She was mine: I was hers forever. But we were very silent for nearly a quarter of an hour, and then, with our senses somewhat more collected, and our hearts more still, we began to speak of all that was to follow. I told her that on the ensuing day I should tell her father what had passed between us, and I asked, somewhat anxiously, if she thought his consent would be easily obtained. She entertained not a doubt, she said; but yet the very suggestion seemed to startle her, and more than once, as we walked homeward, she fell into a fit of musing. THE CONSENT. When I went on the following day, not without some trepidation, I must own, to the little cottage inhabited by the Count de Salins, the servant girl informed me that he was far from well. It was said in a tone of denial; but I begged her to tell him that I was there, and wished much to speak with him for a few minutes. I was immediately admitted, and found him seated in his robe de chambre by a fire, though it was summer time. There were strong traces of suffering in his face, but he welcomed me kindly, saying, that the denial he directed the servant to give was not intended for me. Not knowing what effect the communication I had to make might have upon him, I hesitated whether to say all I had intended; but he led the way to it in some degree himself, saying, “I have sent dear Mariette out with her mother; for she seemed dull and not quite well, and I am not very cheerful company to-day.” “Perhaps I can account, Monsieur de Salins,” I replied, “for Mariette’s being a little thoughtful;” and without giving myself time to pause or hesitate, I went on and told him all at once, adding, as I saw he was a good deal agitated, “I would not have intruded this subject upon you to-day, but that I promised Mariette last night I would not lose a moment in making you acquainted with every thing that had been said between us.” For three or four minutes he sat gazing steadfastly and sternly into the fire. Then starting up, he walked several times backward and forward in the room, gnawing his lip, and gazing, as it were, at vacancy.