ventures.

In a word, he belonged to that small class who live quietly, and who are
worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I had
learned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paint the
man he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood, and,
after a year of devotion to her, had secured her parents' consent to
their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to be
signed, the preparations for the wedding were complete, when his mother
said:

"And your sister? Who will marry her?"

That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spend
all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have no
dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy
prospects; he then came to Paris.

When I heard that story I wished to see the hero. That simple,
unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the
glories of war.

The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach
the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me,
that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually my
thoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemed
to me that he was also examining me with curiosity.

We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!
He, accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the