ons of life. Whether it is that happiness
makes us better, or that she was too fully occupied to torment other
people, she became less caustic, more gentle, and indulgent. This change
in her temper enchanted and amazed her family. Perhaps, at last, her
selfishness was being transformed to love. It was a deep delight to her
to look for the arrival of her bashful and unconfessed adorer. Though
they had not uttered a word of passion, she knew that she was loved, and
with what art did she not lead the stranger to unlock the stores of his
information, which proved to be varied! She perceived that she, too,
was being studied, and that made her endeavor to remedy the defects her
education had encouraged. Was not this her first homage to love, and
a bitter reproach to herself? She desired to please, and she was
enchanting; she loved, and she was idolized. Her family, knowing that
her pride would sufficiently protect her, gave her enough freedom to
enjoy the little childish delights which give to first love its charm
and its violence. More than once the young man and Mademoiselle de
Fontaine walked, tete-a-tete, in the avenues of the garden, where nature
was dressed like a woman going to a ball. More than once they had those
conversations, aimless and meaningless, in which the emptiest phrases
are those which cover the deepest feelings. They often admired together
the setting sun and its gorgeous coloring. They gathered daisies to pull
the petals off, and sang the most impassioned duets, using the notes set
down by Pergolesi or Rossini as faithful interpreters to express their
secrets.

The day of the dance came. Clara Longueville and her brother, whom the
servants persisted in honoring with the noble DE, were the principle
guests. For the first time in her life Mademoiselle de Fontaine felt
pleasure in a young girl's triumph. She lavished on Clara in all
sincerity the gracious petting and little attentions which women
generally give each other only to excite the jealousy of men. Emilie,
had, indeed, an object in view; she wanted to discover some secrets.
But, being a girl, Mademoiselle Longueville showed even more mother-wit
than her brother, for she did not even look as if she were hiding a
secret, and kept the conversation to subjects unconnected with personal
interests, while, at the same time, she gave it so much charm that
Mademoiselle de Fontaine was almost envious, and called her "the Siren."
Though Emilie had intended t