Oh! it is that she lives with another life.

Now, she knows herself; she feels what she really is: now she understands the magic of love.

The world--the priest--all disappears; in the temple of the Lord there is but a human creature she beholds--the man she loves--the man to whom she had faltered her thanks.
Now, let us quit all the envy and jealousy that might be seen exhibited on the way-side from St.Pe, and the triple scandal of cruel tongues; let us follow Franconnette, who carries home to her grandmother the blessed bread crowned with its garland, and who, having given it into her hands, retires to her chamber _alone with her love_! First drop of dew in the time of drought, first ray of sun-light in winter, thou art not more welcome to the bosom of the parched earth in sadness, than this first flame of affection to the awakened heart of the tender girl! Happy--overwhelmed--she forgets herself, and, by degrees, gives up all her being to the new, rapturous delight of loving! Then, far from the noise of evil tongues, she did what we all do; she dreamt with unclosed eyes, and without stone or implements she built herself a little castle, where, with Pascal, all was shining, all was brilliant, all was radiant with happiness.

Oh! the sage is right--the soul in affliction loves the strongest! She gave herself up entirely to her love; she feels she loves for ever, and all in nature seems to smile for her.

But the honey of love too soon becomes bitter.