Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he was the count of Rossilion, descended from the most ancient family in France.  She of humble birth.  Her parents of no note at all.  His ancestors all noble.  And therefore she looked up to the high-born Bertram, as to her master and to her dear lord, and dared not form any wish but to live his servant, and so living to die his vassal.  So great the distance seemed to her between his height of dignity and her lowly fortunes, that she would say, “It were all one that I should love a bright peculiar star and think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me.”

Bertram’s absence filled her eyes with tears, and her heart with sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face.

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some prescriptions of rare and well proved virtue, which by deep study and long experience in medicine, he had collected as sovereign and almost infallible remedies.  Among the rest there was one set down as an approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at that time languished; and when Helena heard of the king’s complaint, she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris, and undertake the cure of the king.  But though Helena was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his physicians were of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer to perform a cure.  The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her father’s skill warranted, though he was the most famous physician of his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven, to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being count Rossilion’s wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed by her steward, that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he understood from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram, and had thought of following him to Paris.  The countess dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak with her.  What she had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of days long past into the mind of the countess, those days probably when her love for Bertram’s father first began; and she said to herself, “Even so it was with me when I was young.  Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature’s children,