cold, and melancholy, has my life been-denied all cheerful things, and cheerful ways-the very light of God darkened to me, by gloomy contemplations and sorrowful forebodings. But let him be near, and let me dwell in the darkest, deepest, loathsomest of dungeons--let me be with him-only with him.

Dear, precious, beloved letter! Ah, let me press thee to my heart! Never, never may I write to him -that I must not, must not do; but I may read thee, and treasure thee, and kiss thee as I do now.

"Victor! Victor! what a name-'tis the name of something so grand, so beautiful! Shall I ever forget him? And why may I not be of that house,' said he; Why not, indeed,' said she. How he looked then. Why not, indeed! What royal house, but would be proud to own thee, my Victor-my Victor! Alas! I cannot even see thee, must not even think of thee-vainly art thou mine!"

CHAPTER V.

VICTOR TO VIRGINIE.

TEN days have I now haunted your hills, hung about your abode, risen in hope every morning, to lie down every night in despair.

Is this well, Virginie is it kind-thus to immure yourself to deny yourself even the breath of the common air, lest one, but too devoted, should share it with you? If the dread of being tormented by me keeps you a prisoner, be satisfied-I promise you, upon the word of a man of honour-that if you will come and take one turn upon the sea-beach, far from being incommoded by my presence, you shall not even see me.

'Now, Mademoiselle, I do think it would seem quite perverse of you, if you refused to go out. You may

rely upon it, he will not be seen.

"Yes, Therese, I will go—I may at least show him the unbounded confidence I place in his word."

"That you may," said Therese; "for Madeleine is quite positive as to who he is. I showed her his seal which I cut off your letter-it does bear the arms of the De Vermonts. Madeleine knew his father very welltoo well," with a short sigh. "She says that this young gentleman is as like him as it is possible for a son to be. And no De Vermont was ever known to break his word, or to do an unworthy thing."

Thus persuaded, Virginie, accompanied by her friend, at length left the enclosure of the garden; but she avoided all the paths which led towards the village, and, taking a direction diametrically opposite, went towards the sea shore. The two friends descended a steep path that passed over the precipice, and so to the beach. The tide was coming in with a low, sullen sound, and the waves beat mournfully upon the shore-the seabirds with their white, flapping wings traversed the gloomy wrack.

It was growing late; the wind blew cold and chill; Virginie wrapped her cloak around her.

As she paced the solitary sands, silent and musing, listening sadly to the whistling winds, and the waves breaking along the deserted strand, did she sometimes wish that the honour of the De Vermonts were less unimpeachable? or, that one of them, at least, might have been known to break his faith?

For many successive evenings of that week, did Mademoiselle de Montalembert with her little companion, descend the narrow path which crossed those lonely rocks, and pace the shining sands which lay at their feet. No one appeared to disturb the silence of her melancholy reveries, as, gazing now upon the vast arch above, now on the swelling circle beneath, she seemed searching in vain for consolation, from that drear loneliness of which she had at length become so bitterly sensible.

Till now, her life, calm and unruffled, had passed in a certain still monotony; and those simple pleasures which Nature, the mother of peace, offers to all her children, had sufficed to stir, with gentle emotion, her tender and artless temper. But since the evening of the little fête, how had the colour of her life been changed!—what a tumult of sweet feelings had found birth!—when youth met youth-tender age, tender age-when delicacy, gentleness, and refinement, beheld intelligence, spirit, and softness, combined-and more, heard the first whispered tones that awakened the answering chords in her innocent heart!

A ray, bright as heaven, illuminated the pale twilight of her horizon-illuminated, but to teach her what darkness, solitude, and destitution were there.

The girlish prattle, the careless thoughts, the idle, flecting hours, that passed unheeded by-farewell to these. Meditations, sweet yet sad, vain hopes, fruitless wishes, flattering recollections, succeeded, as, soothed by the eternal lashings of the waves on those far-echoing shores, she watched the sun sinking in golden clouds to ocean's bed, and twilight gathering dimly round the

hills, while over them the broad, clear moon now showed her silver shield.

Thus pensively and abstractedly walked the gentle Virginie. The little old woman might be seen following, at a short distance, peeping curiously into all the crevices of the rocks, and then turning again to the water, with a vexed and discontented air.

One night they had thus walked till it was very late. The sun had set, and at his setting several clouds arose suddenly, and, gathering round the welkin, hung like curtains over the heavens, and caused an unusual darkness. Three or four men, apparently fishermen, were drawing a small boat to the beach. They were rude in their appearance; and their hoarse voices, coarse, rough dress, the large glazed hats which covered their heads, and the pistols they wore at their belts, gave a sinister, ruffian-like air to the whole group.

The boat had approached the land, while Virginie and her attendant were at some distance from the path which would lead them to the château, so that this party intercepted, as it were, their return.

The sudden darkness had startled the young lady; and, turning round, she walked rapidly homewards, and was about to pass the group who were busy unloading the boat.

"Ho! là! qui va là?" said a rough, hoarse voice, "who's there at this time of night? Spies!"

"No, no; not spies," cried a second.

"Not so sure of that. But if they're not spies, they are women, I suppose, and can tell tales. Pardon, my young gentlewoman, you don't pass here."

"We must pass," said Therese, impatiently, "what are you about? For shame! That's Mademoiselle."

“And if it be Mademoiselle, what's that to us? Do you think we want to have the old Marquis about our ears. He lies perdu up there, quiet enough; -his daughter shan't go and make him look about him."

"Let me pass, I beg of you," said Virginie, very much terrified; "it gets late-I wish to go home."

"And pray, young madam, what keeps you out so

late? Are you waiting to meet your Werter?" said the first speaker, innocently. "Pity he does not appear; but come, you don't go home this night-there's business a-doing, that neither you nor your Werter, nor this goddess of beauty here, shall interrupt; so into the boat with you, and in the morning we may be goodnatured enough to let you off."

"I shall not get into the boat," said Virginie, resolutely, though she trembled in every limb.

"You won't get into the boat? We shall see who's master, then," said the man.

And, laying hold of her arm, he began to push her towards the vessel.

"How dare you! how dare you!" vociferated Therese, perfectly out of her senses with terror and rage, at this insult offered to a being whom she cherished and protected as a child, and honoured as little less than a divinity.

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'What are you about?-how dare you touch the hem of her garment? Let her go! let her go!" with the gestures of a fury; "or, by the powers above, I swear I'll call I'll call for something shall make you repent of this insolence."

And, pitching her voice as high as ever voice was sounded, she uttered a clear, shrill, lengthened cry, that pierced the very rocks, and must have been heard for miles along the shore.

She had counted upon the superstition of these kind of people, and not entirely without reason; for the man who was roughly shaking the delicate arm he held, and dragging forward his prey, by this time almost stunned with terror, made a sort of pause.

"Help!-O heavens and earth!" repeated Therese, and, drawing in her breath, she uttered another cry, if possible still more shrill and piercing; and then, with a scream, between terror and delight:

"I told ye I'd call something," she cried; "and— and don't you see it coming? You had better be off."

The wrack at that moment suddenly opened, and a