heavy on her thoughts, waking and sleeping, was one that the garrulous gossiping Pepys-like northern swallows, chirping so busily, did not guess at all. Indeed, this is the sad fate which generally befalls Gossip.
It is like the poor devil in the legend of Fugger's Teuffelpalast at Trent; it toils till cock-crow picking up the widely-scattered grains of corn by millions till the bushel measure is piled high, and lo!—the five grains that are the grains always escape its sight and roll away and hide themselves. The poor devil, being a primitive creature, shrieked and flew away in despair at his failure. Gossip hugs its false measure and says loftily that the five real grains are of no consequence whatever.
The Duc de St. Louis, who had not got the five grains any more than they had, yet who could have told them their bushelful was all wrong, like a wise man, seeing the project of his affections in a fair way towards realization—at least, so he thought—prudently abstained from saying one word about it to any one.
"Trop de zèle" spoiled everything, he knew,
