after her father's death, he had refused to let her run about giving
lessons. To provide herself with a little money, for she would accept
none as a gift, she worked at embroidery, an art in which she was most
accomplished.

While she was talking to the young men Guillaume had listened to her
without interfering. If he had fallen in love with her it was largely on
account of her frankness and uprightness, the even balance of her nature,
which gave her so forcible a charm. She knew all; but if she lacked the
poetry of the shrinking, lamb-like girl who has been brought up in
ignorance, she had gained absolute rectitude of heart and mind, exempt
from all hypocrisy, all secret perversity such as is stimulated by what
may seem mysterious in life. And whatever she might know, she had
retained such child-like purity that in spite of her six-and-twenty
summers all the blood in her veins would occasionally rush to her cheeks
in fiery blushes, which drove her to despair.

"My dear Marie," Guillaume now exclaimed, "you know very well that the
youngsters were simply joking. You are in the right, of course. . . . And
your boiled eggs cannot be matched in the whole world."

He said this in so soft and affectionate a tone that the young woman
flushed purple. Then, becoming conscious of it, she coloured yet more
deeply, and as the three young men glanced at her maliciously she grew
angry with herself. "Isn't it ridiculous, Monsieur l'Abbe," she said,
turning towards Pierre, "for an old maid like myself to blush in that
fashion? People might think that I had committed a crime. It's simply to
make me blush, you know, that those children tease me. I do all I can to
prevent it, but it's stronger than my will."