"And why may I not be of that house, good woman?" said I.

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Stand there

Why may you not? why may you not, indeed?" dropping my hand. "Years that are gone, days lost in the bosom of eternity! ye rise again to life! Ah! lovely! beautiful! and blessed! I see you as ye werewretched, blasted, and miserable, I recall you. Stand there, young gentleman; let me look upon him. Are you, indeed! so like? Can it be possible that his express and living image should visit these eyes on earth once more?

...

"Your father, youth, was a good and honourable man; noble, gentle, and beautiful like you. He scarce lived to behold you, son of his pride. Ye fair, and ye forlorn ones, ye were orphaned soon; be friends, then, to each other, as orphaned children should.

66 Therese,' ," to the little woman," he is of that house-an honourable house and a good. Young lady, he is an orphan like yourself. Children, may Heaven bless you:"

And taking my hand, she placed the young lady's in it, and pressed them fervently as she spoke.

I forgot the world and all its proprieties then, and taking that trembling hand, I pressed it to my lips and said,

"Heaven grant it may be so: Mademoiselle de Montalembert, we are no longer strangers."

She was silent, and kept gazing on Madeleine.

"No! ye are in truth no strangers. Before ye saw the light, ye were as one. Therese! Therese! give me something. I am very ill. This old blood, this old blood!... It is too much-too much? Dim visions-dim visions! Yes, my beloved mistress, yes, I am coming. How that bell does ring! I cannot come faster than I can. Take him away! take him away. How dare you come here, sir? How dare you come here? Take him away! Go away, sir, for Heaven's sake!"... and making a violent effort, she pushed me from her, and fell from her chair to the floor.

We flew to raise her, and I carried her to her bed. As I held her in my arms, she opened her eyes, and gave me one smile of recognition, and of the most intense affection, then closed them again.

When she was laid upon her bed, she soon recovered her senses, and said she was better and would try to sleep.

Mademoiselle de Montalembert stooped towards her, and kissing her said,

"But we will not leave you alone, Madeleine."

"Send the girl in," said she, "and you must go home, my dear; for monsieur may call for you.'

Then taking her hand, she pulled her down towards her, and whispered for some time in her ear. The colour flew to

the face of the young lady, and when she was released, she seemed covered with confusion.

She looked at me hesitatingly.

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May I attend you over the hills ?" said I, with a pleading look: the sun is setting, and the evenings close so rapidly." "It is indeed late," said she, hurriedly. "Dear Therese, do call the girl; we must go home; my father will miss us." "Not he," said Therese. "Don't frighten and worry yourself, dear. We shall soon be over the hill. Indeed, sir, it will be very well that you should see us to the garden gate, for it grows, as you say, dark."

You may be sure, upon this hint, if I did not speak I moved; and I did not leave them until I saw them both safe within the enclosure of the garden.

VICTOR TO VIRGINIE.

I have written, and torn into ten thousand pieces one scrap after another, and I cannot find the words in which to address you.

I feel as if everything I could say would appear out of season, impertinent, presumptuous, from me to you. What shall I say? I fear you will be angry; I cannot tell you how I dread your anger. What can I do?

You have said that it was vain to attempt to obtain an introduction to Monsieur de Montalembert; yet, is it so sanctioned, that I would have wished to, address you. You tell me this is impossible, and that therefore I can see you no

more.

And can you suppose, can you think it natural, that I shall submit to this sentence without an effort to avert it? Is it natural? Is it to be expected that I should?

I address you with somewhat more confidence, because since that scene at the old woman's cottage, you must-and Therese, skeptic as she is, must, I hope, be convinced that I am what I pretend to be.

Circumstanced as you appear to be-shut out from all the usual opportunities afforded by the mediation of friends, for judging of, or observing one, whose highest ambition it is, to be thought worthy of becoming a subject for your observation; will you refuse to him the only means allowed him of endeavouring to make his character known to you?

Do you never walk out with your faithful little guardian? Am I never, under any circumstances, to meet you more?

At least suffer Therese to break through the charmed circle that surrounds you. Let me speak to her; let me communicate to her what I so ardently desire to communicate to your father; I entreat you, let me at least see her once again.

...." Meet him! impossible, Therese."

"And why should you not just see him, to tell him that it is impossible?"

"Because, circumstanced as I am, it would be most unmaidenly, most unwomanly-I would rather die—I will rather die, than do it."

"Well Madeleine, and she knows best, says you ought to be friends."

"But we cannot be friends; you know that it is impossible for me to be friends with any living creature. That I have no friends but you and Madeleine; and that I never can have."

"You might have him for a friend; I'm sure he looks honest."

"Ah bless you, dear Therese, he does look honest. He looks like one that would be a friend; that would protect, and advise, and console a poor unfortunate like me. But I can never see him more."

"Why not? If you would but walk out."

"And you think 1 would walk out, when he would fancy I came to meet him! You think I would do such a thing as that!"

"Why I don't know; when a maiden is cooped up as you are, and never allowed to go anywhere, and thousands of leagues from any civilized creature, and with no earthly thing to amuse her, I do think it very hard if she mayn't take a walk now and then. And as for you, if you give up walking, it will kill you; the only change or amusement you have. So if this young gentleman prevents you, I'm sure I wish he were at Paris again; and I have a good mind to let him know that he's making you a prisoner, and that I wish he would go away."

"Oh Therese! oh Therese! what are you saying? You would not be so cruel!"

“Oh, I'd not let him know anything but that we wish he'd go away; and then I'm sure he'd go; and I had better set about it directly, for this shutting up will be the death of

you."

And she rose from her seat, and was leaving the room.

"What are you thinking of? what are you saying? Therese, I beseech you, don't go; don't drive him from the country; drive him to Paris! Oh heavens! while he is near, I am not quite alone."

"Nay, but what's the sense of his staying here, if you never will see him, and never will speak to him, and shut yourself up, and will not even go into the flower garden? There's no sense in that."

"Maybe not," sadly; "little sense in anything I can do. But don't, dear Therese, if you love me: don't, sweet Therese; nay, I command you, Therese, and you know you

ought to obey me when I command; don't say anything of this kind to him."

"Now, why not?"

"Oh, I don't know why not, but I beseech you; what would he think?"

"Think, why what's true, that you did not care for him, and then he would soon leave off caring for you; and that would be the best thing he could do."

"Care for him!... Would you have me care for him, as you call it ?"

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'No, to be sure; only as you don't, the best thing for him to do is to take himself off, for he is very much in our way here—and so I mean to tell him, if I can light upon him.” "Oh Therese, promise me you won't do that!"

"Well, well."

"Promise me, Therese-promise me solemnly you won't do that. Dear Therese, sweet Therese, don't be so ill-natured. At least, promise me that you won't do it just yet." "Well, I will promise that."

Virginie was left alone.

"Alas! alas! if he should go away, how dark, how doubly dark, would then my night become! While he is here, while I feel that round these hills he walks-that his thoughts are all on me, ah! there is no virtue in thus denying myself his beautiful, beautiful presence. ... I feel as if I were with him! I feel that his heart is answering to mine! Ah! take him not away! Dreary, 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 Vermont'sMadeleine knew his father very well-too 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 sea birds, 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 was less unimpeachable ?-Or that one of them, at least, might have been known to break his faith?