"Now let me sum up," said Jacques. "Golden hair, blue eyes, a rosy face full of childlike innocence, at times steeped in dewy languor, and those melting smiles which sway us poor men so powerfully; and lastly, with a heart and soul attuned to all exalted feelings and emotions. There is what I look for--ah, to find her! Better still to dream she could love me." "Well, can you not find your Chloe?" Belle-bouche murmured, almost inaudibly. "Never, I fear," said Jacques; "or else," he continued with a sigh, "when we do find her, we always find that some other discoverer claims possession." Belle-bouche blushed. "Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines," she said, attempting to laugh. Jacques looked at her; then shook his head. "'Tis the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers." "Oh no, it is not!" said Belle-bouche. "What then?" "The good, kind heart, faithful and sincere." Jacques fixed his eyes upon her blushing face, which leaned upon one of her fair hands--the other hand meanwhile being an object of deep interest to her eyes, cast down toward it. "And should such a heart be wounded?" he said. "Oh, no!" murmured Belle-bouche, blushing. "Then do not wound mine!" cried Jacques; "dearest Belle-bouche! light of my heart--that was your portrait! Listen to your faithful----" Poor, poor Jacques! Fate played with him. For at the very moment when he was about to fall upon his knees--just when his fate was to be decided--just when he saw an Arcadian picture spread before him, in its brilliant hues, all love and sunshine--that excellent old lady Aunt Wimple entered, calmly smiling, and with rustling silk and rattling key basket, dispelled all his fond romantic dreams. Belle-bouche rose hastily and returned to her embroidery; Aunt Wimple sat down comfortably, and commenced a flood of talk about the weather; and Jacques fell back on an ottoman overcome with despair. In half an hour he was slowly on his way back to town--his arms hanging down, his head bent to his breast, his dreamy eyes fixed intently upon vacancy. Jacques saw nothing around him; Belle-bouche alone was in his vision--Belle-bouche, who by another chance was snatched from him. The odor of the peach blossoms seemed a weary sort of odor, and the lark sang harshly. As he passed through a meadow, he heard himself saluted by name--by whom he knew not. He bowed without looking at the speaker; he only murmured, "One more chance gone." As he passed the residence of Sir Asinus, he heard that gentleman laughing at him; he only sighed, "Belle-bouche!" CHAPTER X. MOWBRAY OPENS HIS HEART TO HIS NEW FRIEND. Instead of following the melancholy Jacques to his chamber, let us return to the meadow in which he had been saluted by the invisible voice. A brook ran sparkling like a silver thread across the emerald expanse, and along this brook were sauntering two students, one of whom had spoken to the abstracted lover.