ring all the expense. For a
time, the young man's proud spirit shrunk from an acceptance of this
generous offer; but Nina and the mother overruled all his
objections, and almost forced him to go.

It may readily be understood, now, why Nina ceased to render
accurate accounts of her charitable expenditures to her father. The
baron entertained not the slightest suspicion of the real state of
affairs, until about a year afterward, when a fine looking youth
presented himself one day, and boldly preferred a claim to his
daughter's hand. The old man was astounded.

"Who, pray, are you," he said, "that presume to make such a demand?"

"I am the son of a peasant," replied Pierre, bowing, and casting his
eyes to the ground, "and you may think it presumption, indeed, for
me to aspire to the hand of your noble daughter. But a peasant's
love is as pure as the love of a prince; and a peasant's heart may
beat with as high emotions."

"Young man," returned the baron, angrily, "your assurance deserves
punishment. But go--never dare cross my threshold again! You ask an
impossibility. When my daughter weds, she will not think of stooping
to a presumptuous peasant. Go, sir!"

Pierre retired, overwhelmed with confusion. He had been weak enough
to hope that the Baron Holbein would at least consider his suit, and
give him some chance of showing himself worthy of his daughter's
hand. But this repulse dashed every hope the earth.

As soon as he parted with the young man, the father sent a servant
for Nina. She was not in her chamber--nor in the house. It was
nearly two hours before she came home. When she entered the presence
of her father, he saw, by her countenance, that all was not right
with her.

"Who was the youth that came here some hours ago?" he asked,
abruptly.

Nina looked up with a frightened air, but did not answer.

"Did you know that he was coming?" said the father.

The maiden's eyes drooped to the ground, and her lips remained
sealed.

"A base-born peasant! to dare--"

"Oh, father! he is not base! His heart is noble," replied Nina,
speaking from a sudden impulse.

"He confessed himself the son of a peasant! Who is he?"

"He is the son of Blanche Delebarre," returned Nina, timidly. "He
has just returned from Florence, an artist of high merit. There is
nothing base about him, father!"

"The son of a peasant, and an artist, to dare approach me and claim
the hand of my child! And worse, that child to so far fo