“Has she not told you, Madame Raynal?” “No; she is refractory. She will tell me nothing, and that makes me fear she is the one in fault.” “Oh! if she does not accuse me, I am sure I will not accuse her. I dare say I am to blame; it is not her fault that I cannot make her love me.” “But you can. She does.” “Yes; but she loves others better, and she holds me out no hope it will ever be otherwise. On this one point how can I hope for your sympathy; unfortunately for me you are one of my rivals. She told me plainly she never could love me as she loves you.” “And you believed her?” “I had good reason to believe her.” Josephine smiled sadly. “Dear Edouard,” said she, “you must not attach so much importance to every word we say. Does Rose at her age know everything? Is she a prophet? Perhaps she really fancies she will always love her sister as she does now; but you are a man of sense; you ought to smile and let her talk. When you marry her you will take her to your own house; she will only see me now and then; she will have you and your affection always present. Each day some new tie between you and her. You two will share every joy, every sorrow. Your children playing at your feet, and reflecting the features of both parents, will make you one. Your hearts will melt together in that blessed union which raises earth so near to heaven; and then you will wonder you could ever be jealous of poor Josephine, who must never hope--ah, me!” Edouard, wrapped up in himself, mistook Josephine’s emotion at the picture she had drawn of conjugal love. He soothed her, and vowed upon his honor he never would separate Rose from her. “Madame Raynal,” said he, “you are an angel, and I am a fiend. Jealousy must be the meanest of all sentiments. I never will be jealous again, above all, of you, sweet angel. Why, you are my sister as well as hers, and she has a right to love you, for I love you myself.” “You make me very happy when you talk so,” sighed Josephine. “Peace is made?” “Never again to be broken. I will go and ask her pardon. What is the matter now?” For Jacintha was cackling very loud, and dismissing with ignominy two beggars, male and female. She was industry personified, and had no sympathy with mendicity. In vain the couple protested, Heaven knows with what truth, that they were not beggars, but mechanics out of work. “March! tramp!” was Jacintha’s least word. She added, giving the rein to her imagination, “I’ll loose the dog.” The man moved away, the woman turned appealingly to Edouard. He and Josephine came towards the group. She had got a sort of large hood, and in that hood she carried an infant on her shoulders. Josephine inspected it. “It looks sickly, poor little thing,” said she. “What can you expect, young lady?” said the woman. “Its mother had to rise and go about when she ought to have been in her bed, and now she has not enough to give it.” “Oh, dear!” cried Josephine. “Jacintha, give them some food and a nice bottle of wine.”