ud, I felt a burning blush overspread my cheek,
and my altered voice would have betrayed my agitation. I was Eucharis to
Telemachus, and Herminia to Tancred. Yet, transformed as I was into
them, I never thought myself of becoming anything to any body. I made no
reflection that individually affected me; I sought nothing around me: it
was a dream without awaking. Yet I remember having beheld with much
agitation a young painter named Taboral, who called on my father
occasionally. He was about twenty years of age, with a sweet voice,
intelligent countenance, and blushed like a girl. When I heard him in
the _atelier_, I had always a pencil or something to look after; but as
his presence embarrassed as much as it pleased me, I went away quicker
than I entered, with a palpitating heart, a tremor that made me run and
hide myself in my little room."

Although her mother was very pious, she did not forbid her daughter from
reading. She wished to inspire her with religion, and not enforce it
upon her. Full of good sense and toleration, she left her with
confidence to her reason, and sought neither to repress nor dry up the
sap which would hereafter produce its fruit in her heart. A servile, not
voluntary religion, appeared to her degradation and slavery which God
could not accept as a tribute worthy of him. The pensive mind of her
daughter naturally tended towards the great objects of eternal happiness
or misery, and she was sure, at an earlier age than any other, to plunge
deeply into their mysteries. The reign of sentiment began in her through
the love of God. The sublime delirium of her pious contemplations
embellished and preserved the first years of her youth, composed the
rest by her philosophy, and seemed as if it must preserve her for ever
from the tempests of passion. Her devotion was ardent; it took the tints
of her soul, and she aspired to the cloister, and dreamed of martyrdom.
Entering a convent, she found there propitious moments, surrendering her
thoughts to mysticism and her heart to first friendships. The monotonous
regularity of this life gently soothed the activity of her meditations.
In the hours of relaxation she did not play with her companions, but
retired beneath some tree to read and muse. As sensitive as Rousseau to
the beauty of foliage, the rustling of the grass, the odour of the
herbs, she admired the hand of God, and kissed it in his works.
Overflowing with gratitude and inward delight, she went to ado