neither rely upon her sense of duty, nor trust to her sense of delicacy."

Therese was thunderstruck.

66 Promised!"

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Yes," said the marquis, bitterly; "the time has been when parents might presume to dispose of the existence of those who owed to them existence. I know as well as you that all this is improved now. Age is no longer to be reverenced-filial duty is a joke. What are parents good for, but to be the humble servants of their children? Nevertheless, I beg you to be informed, that, governed by the antiquated superstitions and customs of my family, I have taken the liberty of promising my daughter-and, that acting under the influence of an equally contemptible and antiquated custom and superstition, I intend to keep my word.”

"Oh, my lord marquis," said Therese, stepping forward, with a face of unspeakable horror, "do not speak so bitterly, and so terribly—those times, thank Heaven! are gone by, when hands were pledged without hearts; withdraw your rash promise-do not destroy your daughter. Consider, my lord, there was great misery and great sin, in those days you speak of."

"I know there was," said the marquis, fiercely," and there is great sin and misery now-you need not remind me of that. Why should I look upon her as my daughter? She was conceived in bitter aversion to me. She was brought to light amid the paroxysms of despair and hatred. Yes, yes, she was created to love a De Vermont.

"But I tell you it is in vain-my word is pledged-she shall see this De Vermont no more. There are still convents, I tell you, in this land, where filial duty may be learned. Bid her prepare for one, in three days You may leave the

room."

Therese obeyed, pale and trembling.

She hastily quitted the room, and almost suffocated with emotion, she, without pausing for reflection, hastily entered the apartment of Virginie who, wearied by her evening's walk, had just been put to bed. Her head resting on her pillow, her eye yet melting with that soft and innocent joy which filled her thoughts, now relieved from their cruel perplexities at peace with herself and confiding in others; content with the present and sanguine as to the future.

So she lay, her heart swelling with gentle and fond feelings, her beautiful eyes more lovely than ever-her soft hair falling like a veil round her face-her mouth half unclosed with innocent rapture.

The door opened, and in came Therese.

She looked at the bed, gazed for one instant in speechless sorrow; and then, with a deep groan, fell across the feet of her child,

Virginie started up, and clasped her in her arms with a face of terror.

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My dear, dear Therese!"

But Therese answered not--she only groaned heavilyshe seemed stupified, lying with her face on the counterpane, and as Virginie raised her head, it seemed almost as helpless as if she had been already dead.

The young girl now sprang to her feet, ran for water, and endeavoured to put some to her lips; but Therese put it away; then rising of herself, she turned round, her eye fell upon that lovely figure in her long, white drapery, the face bent so earnestly and affectionately towards her. She gazed one moment, clasped her suddenly in her arms, and falling upon her neck, burst into a loud passion of cries and tears.

Virginie, bewildered by an excess of feeling which she had never before witnessed, continued to kiss, and carress, and endeavour to comfort her, but in vain; her lamentations continued loud and terrible: at last they found words.

"They are going to take thee away, my child, and to kill thee! Thou art sold, promised, and given away to another; and they are going to kill thee, my darling-ah, Heaven! ah, Heaven!

Virginie was now white as her night dress.

"Sit down, Therese, and tell me this terrible thing."

"Thy father hath promised thee to another-and he will not be moved-he is terrible-I know him well; he is not to be moved. He has promised thee to another, and that will kill thee."

"But," said Virginie, who had began to learn firmness and fortitude, from the difficulties of her situation, and to profit, by the stern apprenticeship of sorrow, "it was in vain to promise me, for my faith is pledged. I will do my duty by my father, Therese, but this is not my duty. My friend, be not heartbroken; they shall not do this to me. break my faith with Victor."

I will not

Therese looked up into her eyes, and then passionately kissed her hand.

"But they will carry thee away-they will take thee to a convent-they will imprison thee for seven long dreary years, and what wilt thou do then? Thou wilt submit at last." "Seven long years!"

Virginie in the confidence of youthful strength, flinched not, though she trembled a little at this. She promised herself that seven years, nay, that seven ages, should not subdue her fortitude; but De Vermont, better able to calculate the force of solitude, persecution, and persevering tyranny, on a heart so tender, shuddered at the thought.

The idea of a seven years' separation, which to the inexperienced enthusiasm of Virginie appeared but as a day-to him who knew the chances and changes of this world, was as

an eternity-as a final sentence. And Therese, with equal despondency, regarded it as the destruction of all her hopes. Yet what was to be done?

How often did Therese and Victor wander down the little shaded lane, discussing all these painful circumstances, inventing and rejecting a thousand schemes to emancipate themselves from this barbarous tyranny. A post chaise and four, and Gretna Green, are things not yet established in the manners of France; a respectful legal notice, of such their intention, is, with them, the mode of marrying in defiance of their parents. But Virginie was seven years too young for the exercise of this privilege; and would remain during this period in the power of a father, exasperated, not altogether without reason, and evidently not of a temper to be easily converted from his prejudices, or persuaded from his determinations.

"I think," said Virginie, "I could trust myself, that neither persecution nor flattery should move me from the faith I have pledged; but my Victor is restless and uneasy, and seven years of his sorrow, how shall I bear that!

Therese, let me see M. Bernard again; he is wise, I will consult him, since I cannot see my Victor more!"

CHAPTER XIV.

ABOUT this time there appeared in the Paris papers the following advertisement :

In that place,

"The Palais Royal November 25, 1816. and on that night a prize was lost, and won. If the winner do not feel inclined to resign what was then obtained, he should appear and make good his claim; or, in common justice, release those whose guardianship it remains, from any farther responsibility upon the subject.-Sept. 10th, 183–”

In compliance with the earnest entreaties of Virginie, Therese, vanquishing her prejudice against priests, and her dread of their interference, had, at length, consented to seek M. Bernard, and to beg of him once more to visit an apartment which he had secretly resolved not to enter again.

Virginie was alone. She rose courteously to meet him, and, giving him her hand

"Monsieur Bernard," she said, "this is very kind of youand I feel ashamed to occasion you so much trouble; but, indeed, I do greatly wish to consult with you."

Then, assigning him a chair, she took her place upon the sofa, and, with an air of calmness and modest decision which

added a new and singular charm to the usual softness of her deportment, she thus began to lay before him the feelings of a heart which was delicacy, tenderness, and goodness itself: "Indeed, sir, my mind is greatly perplexed-and I feel a difficulty that I never experienced before, in recoiling what appear to me conflicting duties. My circumstances have much changed since I saw you last, great difficulties have arisen in my way. I think I see that my course of duty is changed likewise.

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My faith," casting down her eyes," is pledged to him who is to be my husband; yet my father has expressed his determination to bestow me elsewhere. In this, I think, sir, that he exceeds the bounds of that authority with which nature has intrusted a parent; and that not even a father is allowed to violate, at his own will, the most sacred feelings of another's heart. And I think I do rightly-do I not, sir?—in resolving to resist this last exercise of his power-to keep the faith I have already pledged: but, above all, to resist to the death rather than commit that deep and treacherous crime of pledging to another, before the face of my Maker, that heart which is no longer mine to give.

"Do I err, sir?" looking anxiously into his eyes, "do I err resolving thus to all eternity to preserve my fidelity to onethat my falsehood would make so miserable?"

The priest gazed upon her face, beaming with a pure and holy flame of love and honour.

He sighed deeply.

"Oh, no!'

"But my Victor is uneasy, sir. He is most unhappy. He cannot confide in my courage and my perseverance. They talk of shutting me up for seven long years in a covent. He thinks-ah, he is deceived! that seven years can wean me from him! Seven thousand could not. Will you, my dear sir, if you think I am right-will you go to him and console him; and give him that confidence in my determination which he wants. You who can persuade so well-will you persuade him to patience, and to hope. It is all that is left to us now." "Seven years in a convent!" repeated Bernard. "In what convent?"

"I believe in that of the Ursulines, at Rouen," said Virginie.

"God forbid !" cried Bernard; "the cloture is strict! the prison is silent and dark! The cry of the victim reaches no mortal ear. The Lord delays his vengeance. . . . No, Mademoiselle de Montalembert, you must not go there. I speak of no mysterious horrors, I believe they have long ceased to exist. But to be separated from us all-to be immured, without the possibility of communication with any living friend! To suffer all those tortures of the mind, which a mind such as yours is constituted to endure!”

"Yet,” said she, “a thousand, a thousand times will I endure them, rather than give my hand to one, whom my heart disavows."

"Your hand without your heart!" Bernard shuddered.

There was, after this, a long pause; during which the eyes of Virginie were anxiously fixed upon the countenance of the young priest, endeavouring to decipher those troubled characters of pain, doubt, and uncertainty, which passed like clouds over it. He on his part was lost in reflection, and appeared insensible of her presence; like one engaged in deep debate with himself.

From time to time he sighed deeply. At length, rousing his spirits, as a man shakes off a fearful dream, or rather, as a man emancipates himself, by a determined effort, from a train of thought which he is resolved to banish, he suddenly raised himself, and said,

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Forgive me, Mademoiselle de Montalembert. This subject seems to require much consideration. And yet, perhaps, courageous decision would be better."

He hesitated-he sneered-the expression of his countenance became more and more troubled and uncertain-at length, with the air of one who has suddenly taken his resolution, he rose, and said,

"There is only one way-I will dare it. Good-night! If Therese will walk on the bridge this evening about eight o'clock, she shall hear of me.

"Are you going so soon?" said Virginie, looking much disappointed. "You do not, as you did the last time, leave me with fresh infusion of courage. You break off this very suddenly you think me wrong perhaps?"

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"No," said he, his eyes bent upon the ground and speaking much like one in a dream. No, no-I am going to secure his happiness."

He hesitated-sat down again-fixed his eyes wistfully upon her-seemed about to speak; but the words died away inarticulate.

At length rising, as if with effort

"You will send Therese," was all he said.

And he abruptly left the room.

His steps were faltering and uncertain; he stumbled as he crossed the threshold-he tottered like one in a palsy, every limb seemed to refuse its office. It was with very great difficulty that he made his way to the little valley where stood the house of Pierre.

Arrived, he looked round, and found what he sought. De Vermont, agitated, restless, disconsolate, and dissatisfied, was walking to and fro under his favourite elm trees. It was a dark gusty evening of autumn; the black clouds were driving gloomily across the sky, and the wind, from time to time, swept howling down the valley, swaying the dark trees