“So every spirit, as it is more pure, And hath in it the more of heavenly light, So it the fairer body doth procure, To habit in, and it more fairly dight With cheerful grace and amiable sight. For of the soul the body form doth take, For soul is form, and doth the body make.” _Edmund Spenser._ In the best chamber of the house of Pierre Toussaint in Franklin Street, looking out on blossoming grape-vines and a nectarine-tree in the area, sat Mrs. Charlton in an arm-chair, and propped by pillows. Her wasted features showed that disease had made rapid progress since the glance we had of her in the mirror. A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of Toussaint. “Well, Toussaint, what’s the news to-day?” asked the invalid. Toussaint replied in French: “I do not find much of new in the morning papers, madame. Is madame ready for her breakfast?” “Yes, any time now. I see my little Lulu is washing himself.” Lulu was the canary-bird. Toussaint quitted the room and returned in a few minutes, bringing in a tray, spread with the whitest of napkins, and holding a silver urn of boiling water, a pitcher of cream, and two little shining pots, one filled with coffee, the other with tea. The viands were a small roll, with butter, an omelette, and a piece of fresh-broiled salmon. “Sit down and talk with me, Toussaint, while I eat,” said the invalid. “Have you seen my husband lately?” “Not, madame, since he called to recover the box.” “Has he sent to make inquiry in regard to my health?” “Not once, to my knowledge.” “I cannot reconcile my husband’s indifference with his fondness for money. He must know that my death will deprive him of twelve hundred a year. How do you account for it, Toussaint?” “Pardon me, madame, but I would rather not say.” “And why not?” “My surmise may be uncharitable, or it might give you pain.” “Do not fear that, Toussaint. I have surrendered what they say is the last thing a woman surrenders,—all personal vanity. So speak freely.” “Mr. Charlton is young and good-looking, madame, and he is probably well aware that, in the event of his being left a widower, it would not be difficult for him to form a marriage connection that would bring him a much larger income than that you supply.” “Nothing more likely, Toussaint. How strange that I can talk of these things so calmly,—eating my breakfast, thus! They say that a woman who has once truly loved must always love. What do you think, Toussaint?” “This, madame, that if we love a thing because we think it good, and then find, on trial, that it is not good, but very bad, our love cannot continue the same.” “But do we not, in marriage, promise to love, honor, and obey?” “Not by the Catholic form, madame. Try to force love, you kill it. It is like trying to force an appetite. You make yourself sick at the stomach in the attempt.”