seemed to
draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of
retaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face.

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some
prescriptions of rare and well-proved virtue, which by deep study and
long experience in medicine he had collected as sovereign and almost
infallible remedies. Among the rest, there was one set down as an
approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at
that time languished: and when Helena heard of the king's complaint,
she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an
ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris, and undertake the
cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this choice
prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his physicians
was of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would give
credit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer to perform a
cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might be
permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her father's skill
warranted, though he was the most famous physician of his time; for she
felt a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified by all the
luckiest stars in heaven to be the legacy that should advance her
fortune, even to the high dignity of being count Rousillon's wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed by her
steward, that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he
understood from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram,
and thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed the
steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak
with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of
days long past into the mind of the countess; those days probably when
her love for Bertram's father first began; and she said to herself:
'Even so it was with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs
to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever we are
nature's children, these faults are ours, though then we think not they
are faults.' While the countess was thus meditating on the loving
errors of her own youth, Helena entered, and she said to her: 'Helena,
you know I am a mother to you.' Helena replied: 'You are my honourable
mistress.' 'You are my daughter,' said the countess again: 'I say I am
your mother. Why do you star