her turn, how great a resource this would
be to her in her lonely and despised condition.

One day, to Agricola's great surprise, who had just read some verses to
her, the sewing-girl, with smiles and blushes, timidly communicated to
him also a poetic composition. Her verses wanted rhythm and harmony,
perhaps; but they were simple and affecting, as a non-envenomed complaint
entrusted to a friendly hearer. From that day Agricola and she held
frequent consultations; they gave each other mutual encouragement: but
with this exception, no one else knew anything of the girl's poetical
essays, whose mild timidity made her often pass for a person of weak
intellect. This soul must have been great and beautiful, for in all her
unlettered strains there was not a word of murmuring respecting her hard
lot: her note was sad, but gentle--desponding, but resigned; it was
especially the language of deep tenderness--of mournful sympathy--of
angelic charity for all poor creatures consigned, like her, to bear the
double burden of poverty and deformity. Yet she often expressed a sincere
free-spoken admiration of beauty, free from all envy or bitterness; she
admired beauty as she admired the sun. But, alas! many were the verses of
hers that Agricola had never seen, and which he was never to see.

The young mechanic, though not strictly handsome, had an open masculine
face; was as courageous as kind; possessed a noble, glowing, generous
heart, a superior mind, and a frank, pleasing gayety of spirits. The
young girl, brought up with him, loved him as an unfortunate creature can
love, who, dreading cruel ridicule, is obliged to hide her affection in
the depths of her heart, and adopt reserve and deep dissimulation. She
did not seek to combat her love; to what purpose should she do so? No one
would ever know it. Her well known sisterly affection for Agricola
explained the interest she took in all that concerned him; so that no one
was surprised at the extreme grief of the young workwoman, when, in 1830,
Agricola, after fighting intrepidly for the people's flag, was brought
bleeding home to his mother. Dagobert's son, deceived, like others, on
this point, had never suspected, and was destined never to suspect, this
love for him.

Such was the poorly-clad girl who entered the room in which Frances was
preparing her son's supper.

"Is it you, my poor love," said she; "I have not seen you since morning:
have you been ill? Come and kiss me."

T