illustrious
potter, who did for glaze what Benvenuto Cellini did for metal.
Gabrielle had put one of these vases, decorated with animals in relief,
on a table in the middle of the hall, and was filling it with flowers
to enliven her grandmother, and also, perhaps, to give form to her
own ideas. The noble vase, of the pottery called Limoges, was filled,
arranged, and placed upon the handsome table-cloth, and Gabrielle was
saying to her grandmother, "See!" when Beauvouloir entered. The young
girl ran to her father's arms. After this first outburst of affection
she wanted him to admire her bouquet; but the old man, after glancing at
it, cast a long, deep look at his daughter, which made her blush.

"The time has come," he said to himself, understanding the language of
those flowers, each of which had doubtless been studied as to form and
as to color, and given its true place in the bouquet, where it produced
its own magical effect.

Gabrielle remained standing, forgetting the flower begun on her
tapestry. As he looked at his daughter a tear rolled from Beauvouloir's
eyes, furrowed his cheeks which seldom wore a serious aspect, and fell
upon his shirt, which, after the fashion of the day, his open doublet
exposed to view above his breeches. He threw off his felt hat, adorned
with an old red plume, in order to rub his hand over his bald head.
Again he looked at his daughter, who, beneath the brown rafters of that
leather-hung room, with its ebony furniture and portieres of silken
damask, and its tall chimney-piece, the whole so softly lighted, was
still his very own. The poor father felt the tears in his eyes and
hastened to wipe them. A father who loves his daughter longs to keep her
always a child; as for him who can without deep pain see her fall under
the dominion of another man, he does not rise to worlds superior, he
falls to lowest space.

"What ails you, my son?" said his old mother, taking off her spectacles,
and seeking the cause of his silence and of the change in his usually
joyous manner.

The old physician signed to the old mother to look at his daughter,
nodding his head with satisfaction as if to say, "How sweet she is!"

What father would not have felt Beauvouloir's emotion on seeing the
young girl as she stood there in the Norman dress of that period?
Gabrielle wore the corset pointed before and square behind, which
the Italian masters give almost invariably to their saints and their
madonnas. This e