only one daughter living, said La Voisin; but she is happily married, and is every thing to me. When, I lost my wife, he added with a sigh, I came to live with Agnes and her family: she has several children, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as grass-hoppers--and long may they be so! I hope to die among them, monsieur. am old now, and cannot expect to live long; but there is some comfort in dying surrounded by one's children. My good friend, said St. Aubert, while his voice tremb led, I hope you will long live surrounded by them. Ah! sir! at my age I must not expect that! replied the old man, and he paused: I can scarcely wish it, he resumed: for I trust that whenever I die, I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her, of a still moonlight night, walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body? Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and at length said, in a low voice, I hope we shall be permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth; but I can only hope it: futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign, continued he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes: it will sweeten the bitter moments of death! Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too; and there was a pause of silence. Then La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, But you believe, sir, that we shall meet, in another world, the relations we have loved in this? I must believe this. Then do believe it, replied St. Aubert: severe, indeed, would be the pangs of separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily, we shall meet again! He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and resignation stealing on the lines of sorrow. La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it, saying, We are in darkness; I forgot to bring a light. No, said St. Aubert, this is a light I love. Sit down, my good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day: this air refreshes ine. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you sinile Who touches that guitar so tastefully? Are there two Instruments, or is it an echo I hear? It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night, when all is still, but nobody knows wha touches it; and it is sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, that one would almost think the woods were haunted. They certainly are haunted, said St. Aubert, with a smile; but I believe it is by mortals. I have sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep, rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, almost under my window; and I never heard any music like it: it has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window, to look if I could see any body; but as soon as I opened the casement, all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous that even the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn people of their death; but I have heard it these many years, and outlived the warning. Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridicu lous superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its contagion. Well, but, my good friend, said St. Aubert, has nobody had courage to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who is the musician. Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the woods; but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever; and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would go no farther. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left. What turret? asked St. Aubert with quickness; I see none. Your pardon, monsieur; you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full upon it-up the avenue yonder, a long way off: the chateau it belongs to is hid among the trees. Yes, my dear sir, said Emily, pointing don't you see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, í fancy, which the rays fall upon. O yes; I see what you mean. And whom does the chateau belong to? The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner, replied La Voisin, emphatically. Ah! said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, are we then so near Le Blanc ! He appeared much agitated. It used to be the marquis's favourite residence, resumed La Voisin, but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into other hands. St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the last words. Dead! he exclaimed; Good God! when did he die? He is reported to have died about five weeks since, replied La Voisin. Did you know the marquis, sir? VOL. I. 3 This is very extraordinary! said St. Aubert, without attending to the question. Why is it so, my dear sir? said Emily, in a voice of timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had succeeded to the estates. I have forgot his title, monsieur, said La Voisin; but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his coming hither. The chateau is shut up then still ? Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband, the steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard by. The chateau is spacious, I suppose? said Emily, and must be desolate for the residence of only two persons. Desolate enough, mademoiselle, replied La Voisin; I would not pass one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain. What is that? said St. Aubert roused again from thoughtfulness. As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. Almost from my childhood, sir, replied his host. You remember the late marchioness, then? said St. Aubert in an altered voice. Ah, monsieur!-that I do well. There are many beside me who remember her. Yes, said St. Aubert-and I am one of those. Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate. Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes.-Enough, said he, in a voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions-it is enough, my friend. Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore to express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, but St. Aubert interrupted him : Apology is quite unnecessary, said he; let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now beard. I was, monsieur-but hark! it comes again; listen to that voice! They were all silent; At last a soft and solemn breathing sound Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might Still, to be so displaced.-MILTON. In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had been heard before, sounded in low sym. phony. St. Aubert now observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They contin ued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. This is strange! said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. Very strange! said Emily. It is so, rejoined La Voisin; and they were again silent. After a long pause, it is now about eighteen years since I first heard that music, said La Voisin, I remember it was on a fine summer's night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at his bedside all the evening, while his mother slept; for she had sat up with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a little fresh air: the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the shades, and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at the cottage door. But when I came to a place where the trees opened (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden such sounds!-they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of angels, and I looked up again, almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I came home, I told what I had heard but they laughed at me, and said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was; and father Denis frightened her sadly, by saying that it was music come to warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houses where there was a dying person. Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert. But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of father Denis. Father Denis! said St. Aubert, who had listened to "narrative old age" with patient attention-Are we near a convent, then? Yes, sir, the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance on the seashore yonder. Ah! said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, the convent of St. Clair! Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance became fixed, and touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the moonlight, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which seemed to bend in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shown by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casements lends. But, my dear sir, said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made. St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interest which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room. In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of pleasing countenance; and Emily learned from her, what she had not before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part of La Voisin's family should leave their beds: she lamented this circumstance but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring cottage. If I am better, to-morrow, my dear, said St. Aubert when Emily returned to him, I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present state of my health and spirits, I cannot look on a longer journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee. Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not to immediate repose: her thoughts returned to the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spiritsa subject at this time particularly affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless ether, her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had retired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, even this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and en |