love
each other spiritually; it is less expensive."

"Why do you keep him in hiding?" Hortense asked.

"He wears a round jacket," replied the old maid, laughing.

"You truly love him?" the Baroness inquired.

"I believe you! I love him for his own sake, the dear cherub. For four
years his home has been in my heart."

"Well, then, if you love him for himself," said the Baroness gravely,
"and if he really exists, you are treating him criminally. You do not
know how to love truly."

"We all know that from our birth," said Lisbeth.

"No, there are women who love and yet are selfish, and that is your
case."

Cousin Betty's head fell, and her glance would have made any one shiver
who had seen it; but her eyes were on her reel of thread.

"If you would introduce your so-called lover to us, Hector might find
him employment, or put him in a position to make money."

"That is out of the question," said Cousin Betty.

"And why?"

"He is a sort of Pole--a refugee----"

"A conspirator?" cried Hortense. "What luck for you!--Has he had any
adventures?"

"He has fought for Poland. He was a professor in the school where the
students began the rebellion; and as he had been placed there by the
Grand Duke Constantine, he has no hope of mercy----"

"A professor of what?"

"Of fine arts."

"And he came to Paris when the rebellion was quelled?"

"In 1833. He came through Germany on foot."

"Poor young man! And how old is he?"

"He was just four-and-twenty when the insurrection broke out--he is
twenty-nine now."

"Fifteen years your junior," said the Baroness.

"And what does he live on?" asked Hortense.

"His talent."

"Oh, he gives lessons?"

"No," said Cousin Betty; "he gets them, and hard ones too!"

"And his Christian name--is it a pretty name?"

"Wenceslas."

"What a wonderful imagination you old maids have!" exclaimed the
Baroness. "To hear you talk, Lisbeth, one might really believe you."

"You see, mamma, he is a Pole, and so accustomed to the knout that
Lisbeth reminds him of the joys of his native land."

They all three laughed, and Hortense sang _Wenceslas! idole de mon ame!_
instead of _O Mathilde_.

Then for a few minutes there was a truce.

"These children," said Cousin Betty, looking at Hortense as she went up
to her, "fancy that no one but themselves can have lovers."

"Listen," Hortense replied, finding herself alone with her cousin, "if
you prove to me that Wenceslas is not a pur