recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the question, and added, If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it that you dread to pass near that chateau in the dark?

Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if you knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened there. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late marchioness. Pray inforin me what did happen? said Emily, with much emotion.

Alas! ma'amselle, answered La Voisin, inquire no farther; it is not for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord. Emily, surprised by the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore to repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heard on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. You was not alone, ma'amselle, in this, he replied; I heard it too; but I have so often heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised.

You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the chateau, said Emily, suddenly, and are, therefore, superstitious. It may be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances belonging to that chateau which I remember, and sadly too. A heavy sigh followed; but Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, and she inquired no farther.

On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was removed from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all the anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin at length persuaded her to leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke considerably refreshed.

When the dreadful hour arrived in which the remains of St. Aubert were to be taken from her forever, she went alone to the chamber to look upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited patiently below stairs till her despair should subside, with the respect due to grief forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till surprised at the length of her stay, and then apprehension overcame hisdelicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped gently at the door without receiving an answer, he listened attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet, more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin. His calls procured assistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper applications at length restored her.

During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbear revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and re-collecting fortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching scene. St. Aubert had given a particular injunction that his remains should be interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and in mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointed out the exact

spot where he wished to be laid. The superior had granted this place for the interment, and thither, therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met at the gates by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars. Every person who heard the solemn chant of the anthem and the peal of the organ that struck up when the body entered the church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily, gave her involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two persons, who supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by nuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge. When the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew the veil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause between the anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible. The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her feelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattle on its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, and she leaned for support on the person who stood next to her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she heard those affecting and sublime words, "His body is buried in peace, and his soul returns to Him that gave it," her anguish softened into tears.

The abbess led her from the church into her own parlor, and there administered all the consolations that religion and gentle sympathy can give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommended her to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her promise to remain a few days at the convent, and Emily, who had no wish to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure, now that no immediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the indisposition which disabled her from immediately travelling.

Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess and the gentle attentions of the nuns did all that was possible towards soothing her spirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even reluctant to leave the spot where her father's relics were deposited, and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration that, if she died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the mean while, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper, informing them of the sad event that had taken place, and of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding more in commonplace condolement than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her that a servant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallee, for that her own time was so much occupied by company that she had no leisure to undertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La Vallee to Toulouse, she could not be insensible of the indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt in suffering her to return thither, where she had no longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct which was the more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the guardian of his orphan daughter.

Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensible of her obligations to him, for all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was glad to spare him a long and what, at his time of life, must have been a troublesome journey.

During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world where she had lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the touches which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to the monastic scene, began to fade as her spirits revived, and brought once more to her heart an image which had only transiently been banished thence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweet affections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and though she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them out forever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimity of the scenes amidst which they had first met had fascinated her fancy, and imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more interesting, by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance and manner had continually expressed his admiration of her, he had not otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion.

It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant before Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee. On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between his daughter and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily labor, and who was playing upon a pipe, that in tone resembled an oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and before him a small table with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their mother distributed it. On the edge of the little green that spread before the cottage were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. The landscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whose long slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and lighted up the distant turrets of the chateau. She paused a moment before she emerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before her, on the complacency and ease of healthy age, depicted on the countenance of La Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her

children, and the innocency of infantine pleasures reflected in their smiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage; the memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and she hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause. She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his family: he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily shed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it would revive emotions such as she could not now endure.

One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit her father's grave; and that she might not be interrupted or observed in the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised to bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily remained in her chamber till she heard the convent bell strike twelve, when the nur came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private door that opened into the church, and they descended together the narrow winding staircase that led thither. The nun offered to accompany Emily to the grave, adding, it is melancholy to go alone at this hour; but the former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent to have any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked the door, gave her the lamp. You will remember, sister, said she, that in the east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the light to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth. Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and stepping into the church, sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door: a sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of the staircase, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and, while she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral balusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated the veil disappeared, and in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she returned to the church. The cold air of the aisles chilled her, and their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moonlight that streamed through a distant gothic window, would, at any other time, have awed her into superstition; now grief occupied all her attention. She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of the open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of the convent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she had sat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard at a distance the monks chanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory the circumstances of her father's death; and as the voices, mingling with a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and affecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them, and turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these recollections made her pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the moonlight, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thought she saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to listen, and not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her, and no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and the date of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument of the Villerois.

Emily remained at his grave till a chime, that called the monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then she wept over it a last farewell, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep than she had experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was more tranquil and resigned than it had been since St. Aubert's death.

But when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her grief returned; the memory of the dead and the kindness of the living attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot where her father's remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affec tions which we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of regard at their parting, and pressed her to return if ever she should find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns, also, expressed unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with many tears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness. She had travelled several leagues before the scenes of the country through which she passed had power to rouse her for a moment from the deep melancholy into which she was sunk; and when they did, it was only to remind her that on her last view of them St. Aubert was at her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed the day in languor and dejection. She slept that night at a town on the skirts of Languedoc, and on the following morning entered Gascony. Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in the neighborhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of former times began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections that awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through her tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the rich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that when last she saw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly, some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, would present itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon the heart. There! she would exclaim, there are the very cliffs, there the wood of pines which he looked at with such delight as we passed this road together for the last time! There, too, under the crag of that mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade me remember, and copy with my pencil! O my father, shall I never see you more!

As she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past times multiplied. At length, the chatean itself appeared amid the glowing beauty of St. Aubert's favorite landscape. This was an object which called for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to meet with calinness the trying moment of her return to that home where there was no longer a parent to welcome her. Yes, said she, let me not forget the lessons he has taught me! How often has he pointed out to me the necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow! how often we have admired together the greatness of a mind that can at once suffer and reason! O my father, if you are permitted to look down upon your child, it will please you to see that she remembers and endeavors to practise the precepts you have given her!