t modest vanity
which made her painfully susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty.
Instinctively conscious of how deeply she herself could love, she
believed it impossible that she could ever be so loved in return. The
stranger, so superior in her eyes to all she had yet seen, was the first
who had ever addressed her in that voice which by tones, not words,
speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To _him_ she was
beautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out, undimmed by the imperfections
of her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personal
attraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with the
freshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tender
an expression, that there were moments when it would not have been
the blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her early
childhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which the
smallpox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had not
only seared the smooth skin and brilliant hues, but utterly changed even
the character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's family were
celebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so bitterly had
her parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that poor Lucille
had been early taught to consider them far more grievous than they
really were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, the loss
of which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. Lucille,
too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all Malines for
her personal perfections; and as the cousins were much together, the
contrast was too striking not to occasion frequent mortification to
Lucille. But every misfortune has something of a counterpoise; and the
consciousness of personal inferiority had meekened, without souring, her
temper, had given gentleness to a spirit that otherwise might have been
too high, and humility to a mind that was naturally strong, impassioned,
and energetic.

And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most dreaded
in the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved.
Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certain
inexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was absent from
the scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace.

"I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother,
as he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted that