ad fastened
upon his mind. He even followed the family custom of seeking a wife in
Ghent, or at Bruges, or Antwerp; but it happened that no woman whom he
met there suited him. Undoubtedly, he had certain peculiar ideas as
to marriage; from his youth he had been accused of never following the
beaten track.

One day, at the house of a relation in Ghent, he heard a young lady,
then living in Brussels, spoken of in a manner which gave rise to a long
discussion. Some said that the beauty of Mademoiselle de Temninck was
destroyed by the imperfections of her figure; others declared that she
was perfect in spite of her defects. Balthazar's old cousin, at whose
house the discussion took place, assured his guests that, handsome or
not, she had a soul that would make him marry her were he a marrying
man; and he told how she had lately renounced her share of her parents'
property to enable her brother to make a marriage worthy of his name;
thus preferring his happiness to her own, and sacrificing her future
to his interests,--for it was not to be supposed that Mademoiselle de
Temninck would marry late in life and without property when, young and
wealthy, she had met with no aspirant.

A few days later, Balthazar Claes made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle
de Temninck; with whom he fell deeply in love. At first, Josephine de
Temninck thought herself the object of a mere caprice, and refused to
listen to Monsieur Claes; but passion is contagious; and to a poor girl
who was lame and ill-made, the sense of inspiring love in a young and
handsome man carries with it such strong seduction that she finally
consented to allow him to woo her.

It would need a volume to paint the love of a young girl humbly
submissive to the verdict of a world that calls her plain, while she
feels within herself the irresistible charm which comes of sensibility
and true feeling. It involves fierce jealousy of happiness, freaks of
cruel vengeance against some fancied rival who wins a glance,--emotions,
terrors, unknown to the majority of women, and which ought, therefore,
to be more than indicated. The doubt, the dramatic doubt of love, is the
keynote of this analysis, where certain souls will find once more the
lost, but unforgotten, poetry of their early struggles; the passionate
exaltations of the heart which the face must not betray; the fear
that we may not be understood, and the boundless joy of being so; the
hesitations of the soul which recoils upon