Fair-haired and pale, and about eighteen or nineteen years of age, Gilberte de Châteaubrun had, in her face as in her character, an admixture of good sense beyond her years and her childish gayety, which few young women would have retained in such a position as hers; for it was impossible for her not to be aware of her poverty and of the future of isolation and privations which was in store for her in that age of cold calculation and selfishness. She seemed, however, to be no more affected by it than her father, whom she resembled, feature by feature, morally as well as physically; her fearless, amiable glance was marked by the most touching serenity. She blushed deeply when she saw Emile, but it was the effect of surprise rather than embarrassment; for she came forward and bowed to him without awkwardness, without that constrained and slyly-bashful air which has been too highly extolled in young women, for lack of knowledge as to what it means. It did not occur to Gilberte that her father's young guest would devour her with his eyes, and that she should assume a dignified air in order to place a curb upon the audacity of his secret desires. On the contrary, she looked at him, to see if his face appealed to her as it did to her father, and with ready perspicacity she observed that he was very handsome without being in the least degree vain; that he followed the fashions to a moderate extent; that he was neither stiff, nor arrogant, nor presuming; in short, that his expressive face was instinct with candor, courage and delicacy. Satisfied with this scrutiny, she at once felt as much at her ease as if there were no stranger with her and her father. "It is true," she said, completing Monsieur de Châteaubrun's sentence of introduction, "my father was angry with you for running away the other day without your breakfast. But I understood perfectly that you were impatient to see your mother, especially in view of the flood when everyone might well tremble for his friends. Luckily, Madame Cardonnet didn't get very much of a fright, we were told, and you lost none of your workmen." "Thank God, no one was killed at our place or in the village," Emile replied. "But your property was damaged a good deal, wasn't it?" "That is the least interesting point, mademoiselle; the poor people suffered much more in proportion. Luckily, my father has the power and the inclination to repair many disasters." "They say especially--they say _also_," rejoined the girl, blushing a little at the word that had escaped her involuntarily--"that madame your mother is exceedingly kind and charitable. I was talking about her just now with little Sylvain, whom she overwhelmed with kindness." "My mother is perfect," said Emile; "but, on that occasion, it was quite natural that she should manifest much good-will toward that poor child, but for whom I should very likely have lost my life through imprudence. I am impatient to see him and thank him."