where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage; and they were obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of fatigue which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose, and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the vintage with the gayeties of a French festival, no longer awakened St. Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes moved over the scene, he considered that they would soon perhaps be closed forever on this world. Those distant and sublime mountains, said he, secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards the west-these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man, will no longer sound for me!

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such tender pity as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of regret, and he remembered only that he must leave his daughter without protection. This reflection changed regret to agony: he sighed deeply, and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapors of an autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert desired that the window might be drawn up. Increasing illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey, and he stopped the muleteer to inquire how far they had yet to go to the next post. He replied, nine miles. I feel I am unable to proceed much farther, said St. Aubert; inquire, as you go, if there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the night. He sunk back in the carriage; and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they waited till he came up, when he was asked if there was any house in the neighborhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew of none. There is a chateau, indeed, among these woods on the right, added he, but I believe that it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a stranger here. St. Aubert was going to ask him some farther question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly passed on. After some consideration he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight and increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after passed. Which is the way to the chatean in the woods? cried Michael.

The chateau in the woods! exclaimed the peasant. Do you mean that with the turret, yonder?

I don't know as for the turret, as you call it, said Michael; I mean that white piece of a building that we see at a distance there, among the

trees.

Yes, that is the turret. Why, who are you, that you are going thither? said the man, with surprise.

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. We are travellers, said he, who are in search of a house of accommodation for the night is there any hereabout?

None, monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder, replied the peasant, pointing to the woods; but I would not advise you to go there.

To whom does the chateau belong?

I scarcely know myself, monsieur.

It is uninhabited, then?

No, not uninhabited; the steward and housekeeper are there, I believe.

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, and risk the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore desired the countryman would show Michael the way, and bade him expect reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good-night, and walked on.

The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate; and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of ancient oak and chestnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant had mentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father's situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every impression.

They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of old trees that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed with caution. On a sudden, Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from the window to inquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.

This seems a strange, wild place, said Michael; there is no house hereabout: don't your honor think we had better turn back?

Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the road, replied St. Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance; and the extreme slowness of his pace made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual. However this might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in the avenue.

Please your honor, he may be a robber, said Michael. It does not please me, replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his phrase; and we will, therefore, return to the road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.

Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It was not the voice of command or distress, but a deep, hollow tone which seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went as fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, and the necks of the whole party; nor once stopped till he reached the gate which opened from the avenue into the high road, where he went into a more moderate pace.

I am very ill, said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. You are worse, then, sir! said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner: you are worse, and here is no assistance! Good God! what is to be done? He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavored to support him with her arm; and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on the air: it was to Emily the voice of Hope. Oh! we are near some human habitation! said she help may soon be had.

She listened anxiously: the sounds were distant, and seemed to come from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint moonlight something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reach this: St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage; Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her father, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately. St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless. My dear, dear father! cried Emily, in great agony, who began to fear that he was dying: speak, if it is only one word, to let me hear the sound of your voice! But no voice spoke in reply. In an agony of terror, she bade Michael bring water from the rivulet that flowed along the road; and, having received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it over her father's face, which, as the moon's rays now fell upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of selfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence; and, committing St. Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the carriage, in search of the chatean she had seen at a distance. It was a still moonlight night, and the music, which yet sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road up a shadowy lane that led to the woods. Her inind was for some time so en

tirely occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt no more for herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now wholly excluded the moonlight, and the wildness of the place, recalled her to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified perplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcoming every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in the woods; but she looked round in vain for a house or a human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and endeavoring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue, which opened upon a moonlight spot, arrested her attention. The wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to the turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe that this was a part of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While she hesitated whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear; it seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot; and she stood appalled. While she paused, she heard a distant voice calling from the way she had come, and, not doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impression was to hasten back; but a second thought changed her purpose-she believed that nothing less than the last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules; and, fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her heart beat with fearful expectation as she drew near the spot whence the voices issued, and she often started when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moonlight glade she had before noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw, between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf, surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods, which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavored to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant girls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance began. It was the joyous music of the vintage-the same she had before heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast which this gay scene offered to her own distress. She stepped hastily forward towards a group of elder persons who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having explained her situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose with alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, who seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.

When they reached the carriage, she found St. Aubert restored to animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still languid; and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he renewed his inquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in the oods. The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir, said a venerable

peasant who had followed Emily from the woods; it is scarcely inhab ited; but if you will do me the honor to visit my cottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he, therefore, was not surprised at French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy to apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of the peasant's hospitality; but immediately accepted it, with the same frankness with which it was offered.

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up the lane which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moonlight glade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of his host and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet complacency upon the moonlight scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming splendor, discovering a cottage or a sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine; and though tears came to his eyes when he saw the debonnairs dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise: immediate terror for her father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten.

The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes, which they presented to the travellers-each with kind contention pressing for a preference.

At length the carriage stopped at a neat cottage; and his venerable conductor having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illumined only by moonbeams, which the opened casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an armchair, and his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air that lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of his guest. St-Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table; and, when the frit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated several particulars concerning himself and his family, which were interesting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineated a picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand; and while she listened to the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration that death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft moonlight of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old man continued to talk