young girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, "M. Van Amberg," said she iu broken voice, affectionate advice; and, instead of these, she was "orders you to remain in your room. I am to take the bearer of a sentence whose severity must aggra-him the key. You are to see no one. The hour vate the evil-she was compelled to deny her sick is come, and he expects me." child the remedies that might have saved her. 'You love him very dearly then," said she at last, fixing a long, melancholy look on her daugh 66 ter's countenance. "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you comprehend how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him, not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly, at his command." "Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both hands upon her daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine disengaged herself from her mother's arms. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father could never let himself be loved thus!" "Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically. "Oh, my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and duty! Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her soul! Christine, hear me !" now. Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at random, and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts have been troubled as yours is The noble ones have struggled and triumphed; the others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage; its trials are many and painful-its struggles severe; believe me, for us women there is no true happiness without the bounds of duty. And when happiness is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us. Honor, the esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved child! That God, whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you not fear offending him? Seek him, and you will find better consolation than I can offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are severed on earth. He, who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many fetters on the heart of women, foresaw the sacrifices they would entail, and surely he has kept treasures of love for hearts that break in obedience to duty.' Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then clasping Christine's arm "On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I gave you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him-his arms seeming to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful God! Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!" Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine, who had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted up again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and bathed her hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her kisses, "my daughter, speak to me. Utter one word that I may take with me as a hope! My child, will you not speak to your mother?" "Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply. Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort o collect and express her ideas. "A prisoner!" cried Christine; a prisoneralone, all day! Death rather than that!" "He will have it so," repeated Annunciata, mournfully; "I must obey. He will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated by the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the lock, and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly descended. She found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlor. "You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?" "She did," murmured Annunciata. "Where is the key?" She gave it him. "Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room. Annunciata endeavored to follow him, but her strength failed her, and she sank upon a chair. M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner. "A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls-a straiter captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed-the scanty liberty I found means to enjoy!" She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and looked at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no light fell upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked the outlines of objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the sun were there, were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence. reigned around. In view of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of happiness could hardly enter the heart. Christine was in a fever; she felt oppressed and crushed by unkindly influences, by the indifference of friends, by a tyrant's will, even by the cold and mournful night. The young girl's heart beat quickly and rebelliously. "Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may render me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by persecution. Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much. But they rob me of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud that my heart still throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My sufferings will hallow my love, will compel the respect of those who, scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear Herbert! where are you at this moment? Do you joyfully anticipate tomorrow's dawn; are you busy with your boat, preparing it for its early cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming of the old willows in the meadow, hearing the waters murmur through their branches, and the voice of Christine promising her return? But no; it cannot be; our hearts are too united for their feelings thus to differ! You are sad, my love, and you know not why; I am sad with knowledge of our misfortune-'t is the sole difference separation can establish between us. When shall we meet again, Herbert? Alas! I know not, but meet we assuredly shall. If God lets me live, he will let me love you.' Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without undressing. It was cold; she | Again, none but Gothon disturbed her solitude. wrapped herself in her mantle, and gradually her During another long day, Christine, alternately head sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed against each other, opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep, like an infant, in the midst of her tears. desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented, and prayed. Night came again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in the red house were extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness covered the earth. Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. Suddenly she started; she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her age memory is better for joy than for sor-foot of the wall. She listened. row. For her the dawn of day was still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to the consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves without bending the branches; the long, fine grass of the meadow was seen through a vale of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of awakening nature had not yet begun, when a white sail stood out upon the surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale to the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank, as though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At long intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound, like the last notes of a song; then the little bark again mancuvred, and its sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the warmer sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats ascended the river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to inhale the morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly away at the will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept. "Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice. "Mother!" exclaimed Christine, you out in this dreadful weather! I conjure you to go in!" "I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I am better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who are my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me; it would have killed me. How are you, dear Christine? Have you all you require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?" Twice during that day Gothon opened the door of the young girl's chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the crucifix, her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the cross, and prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she never dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar, passed round her neck the faded blue riband, tied on it at Seville, and which her mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few chords of the songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her tears flowed more abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the little sprays of willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve them. But the day was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her prison like a caged bird, with an anguish that each moment increased. head burned, her bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the open window, the cold calmed her a little. They brought her no light, and time passed more slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of her accustomed exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could not sleep; she got up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down; slumber still avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and watchfulness, beheld the sunrise without illusion; she did not for a moment forget her captivity, but looked mournfully out at the little sail which, faithful to its rendezvous, came each morning with the sun. Her "Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold; it will be your death!" "Your voice warms me; it is far from you that I feel chill and faint. Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses." "I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But, when shall I see you again?" "When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you are forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your duty." "Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If my malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and self-sacrificing. Good God! How is it you do not understand that?" "I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone, that she was sure her daughter could not hear her. "Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my hap piness." "I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror, "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose his will!" "Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart to understand what mine experiences.; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease, but not my love. Who can do it if you cannot? I am a captive. My sisters know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a woman's voice to express a woman's feelings." "Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength." "I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me." "I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word." Christine started and trembled. "Do not go then, dearest mother. Forgive my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such terrible power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God." There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I am your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your aid, I will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven." Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the house door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass before him into the parlor. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil nearly exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and then suddenly became nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness, the doors and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object on which a strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It was calm, cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his pale gray eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give him the aspect of an implacable judge. "You would speak with me, madame," said he to Annunciata, "I am here, speak!" On entering the parlor, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her shoulders, her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse rather than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory even of what had just occurred, her mind was confused, she felt only that she suffered horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of her ideas; the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort, rallied her strength, and rose to her feet. "Now then," she murmured, " since it must be so!" M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata looked long at him before speaking; she hoped that at sight of her tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence. "I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful effort to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to speak first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a trembling woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak. Christine's happiness is in your hands. The poor child implores me to soften your rigor. * Did I refuse, not a creature upon earth would intercede for her. This is why I venture to petition you, sir." M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her cheeks, and resumed with more courage. "The poor child is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me. Believe me, sir, I have labored hard to check them in the bud. I have striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her nature is unchangeable: she is to blame, but she is also much to be pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as hers, and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's sake, sir, let her marry him she loves!" character. Your daughter requires a protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family, for tune, nor position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who bears the name of Mademoiselle Van Amberg!" "Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion, "sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she loves! It is her best safeguard; it strengthens her against the cares of the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling upon her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a torture: do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures; we have need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible necessity of choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!" "Madame," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a slight nervous trembling, Madame, you are very bold to speak to me thus! You! you! to dare to hold such language to me! Silence! and teach your daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do that, instead of weeping uselessly at my feet." "Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found courage in suffering. I am illin pain-my life is worthless, save as a sacrificelet my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is in your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked of him! Be merciful to my child!" M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand on her mouth, and said: "Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not disturb their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them. Silence! You had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you. Never dare again to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must obey, I whom you must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and to-morrow let me find you what you yesterday were." M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the room. "Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing have I been able to do for you! Merciful Father! what wil become of me, placed between him and her, both inflexible in their resolves!" The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly went out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat against the windows-the wind howled-the house clock struck four. Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her away with him; afterwards she had distinguished, through the slight partitions of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties, and reproaches. She understood that her fate was deciding-that her poor mother had devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the stern ruler whose look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine passed the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to disAnnunciata covered her face with her hands, and couragement and to joyful hopes. At her age it is awaited in an agony of anxiety her husband's reply. not easy to despair. Fear, however, predominated "Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is over every other emotion, and she would have given still a child; she has inherited, as you say, a char-years of existence to learn what had passed. But acter that needs restraint. I will not yield to the first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is only two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his the day went by like the previous one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she ventured to question, but the old servant had orders not to answer. She grew visibly weaker, and as death approached, a painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was not calm. It was ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the end. The destiny of one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she dared not pronounce the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion for her; a thousand con Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no friendly voice reached her ear, no kind hand lifted the veil shrouding her future. The poor girl was exhausted; she had not even the energy of grief. She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came, and she fell asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an hour when she was awakened by the open-flicting doubts and fears agitated her poor heart. ing of the door, and Gothon, lamp in hand, approached her bed. "Get up, mademoiselle," said the servant," and follow me.' She died as she had lived, repressing her tears, concealing her thoughts. From time to time she turned to her husband, but his head continued sunk Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and has upon his hand; not one look of encouragement tily followed Gothon, who conducted her to her could she obtain. At last came the spasm that was mother's room, opened the door, and drew back to to break this frail existence. "Adieu! Adieu!" let her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's she murmured in unintelligible accents. Her eyes eyes. Annunciata, pale and almost inanimate, lay no longer obeyed her, and none could tell whom in the agonies of death. Her presentiment had not they sought. William approached his brother, and deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped placed his hard upon his shoulder. "Karl!" he the slender strings that bound her to the earth. whispered in tones audible but to him he addressed, The light of the lamp fell full upon her features," she is dying! Have you nothing to say to a poor whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface. creature who has so long lived with you and sufResignation and courage were upon her counte- fered by you? Living, you loved her not; do not nance, over which came a gleam of joy when Chris- let her die thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this tine appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and woman, oppressed and slighted by you, should exwept at the foot of their mother's bed. William pire with a leaven of resentment in her heart? stood a little apart, holding a prayer-book, but his Crave her pardon before she departs." eyes had left the page to look at Annunciata, and two large tears trembled on their lids. M. Van Amberg, seated beside his wife's pillow, had his face shaded by his hand, so that none could see its expression. With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's, "it is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your strength." "No, my beloved child, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since I once more clasp you in my arms." "And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly raising her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for other sorrows than yours, my mother!" "Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I can abandon myself to the embraces of my children," and she clasped her weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless you, my daughters; remember and pray for me." The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell. 66 "My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, my good brother, we have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend, indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!" For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata, her head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a sudden she moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards M. Van Amberg, and groped for his hand as though she had been blind. When she found it, she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and expired in that last kiss. "On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees; she is in heaven! let us implore her intercession!" And all knelt down. Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time, in the presence of its Creator. M. Van Amberg rose from his knees. "Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be alone with my wife." Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none other was to follow, glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of bed, as when it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it had kissed his fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelop that bound his heart was at last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed," Annunciata!" For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. "Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love! Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us happiness. William averted his head to conceal his tears, but I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joya deep sob escaped him, and he turned his vener-ous child in Spain, till this sad moment that I press able face towards Annunciata. "Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister, you will still live for the happiness of us all." you dead upon my heart. Oh Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!" 66 Karl Van Amberg wept. "Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured, may you find in heaven the repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her. Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if she would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on her lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and Almighty God!" he said, "I have been sethen closed her eyes, to check the starting tears. I vere. Be thou merciful!" 66 lows: When at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the in the young girl's heart, as she read what fol chamber of death, his face had resumed its habitual expression his inflexible soul, for a moment bowed, had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the last word of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes of all he reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose brow no sorrow left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his passage, William spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the house. Annunciata was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to revisit it no more, the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had worn out its mortal envelop; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to be heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or altered because she went. If any mourned her, they mourned in silence; if they thought of her, they proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was no more heard; only the interior of the little red house was rather more silent, and M. Van Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than before. During the day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will that weighed on each member of the family. The poor child was silent, worked, sat at table, lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but at night, when she was alone in the little room where her mother had so often wept with her, she gave free course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke to her, extended her arms to her, and would fain have left the earth to be with her in heaven. "Take me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim. Deprived of you, apart from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I no longer fear death." 66 Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use of it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her so many tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlor, supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her mother's voice murmur in her ear"My daughter, it is too soon to be happy! Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation." Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what I am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to your father and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his will, and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments. Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships, sailing for Batavia." A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears, devoured the subsequent lines. "Your father places the immensity of ocean between us; he separates us forever. We are to meet no more: Christine, has your heart, since I last saw you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored Christine, we must live or die together! Your poor mother is no more; your presence is no longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your family is pitiless and without affection for you. Your future is gloom and unhappiness. Come, then, let us fly together. In the Helder are numerous ships; they will bear us far from the scene of our sufferings. All is foreseen and arranged. Christine, my life depends on your decision. Forever separated! ** subscribe to that barbarous decree, and I terminate an existence which henceforward would be all bitterness! And you, Christine; will you love another, or live without love? Oh! come, I have suffered so much without you! I summon you, I await you, Christine! my bride! At midnight-on the river bank -I will be there! and a world of happiness is before us. Come, dear Christine, come!" As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She experienced a moment of agonizing indecision. She loved passionately, but she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her pure soul the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard in her father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy prayers she had learned from her infancy upwards, resounded in her ears; the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the beads of her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers. "Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed: "Herbert who calls his bride! my mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her, death and heaven! **" And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she tried calmly One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell to contemplate an existence in that melancholy into a tardy slumber, broken by dreams. Now it house, weeping for Herbert, growing old without was her mother, who took her in her arms, and him, without love, within those gloomy walls, where flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let no heart sympathized with hers. The picture was you live," said Annunciata, "for life is sorrow. too terrible; she felt that such a future was unenI have prayed of God to let you die young, that you may not weep as I have wept !" The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white, and crowned with flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all evil; come, we will be happy !" She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window was open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction of the river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she guessed it was Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the first time the writing of him one loves; the heart recognizes as if the eyes had already seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun tinted the summits of the willows, and hope and love revived durable. "At midnight, I will be there!" Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to calm her violent agitation. A vast future unrolled itself before her; liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life began for her. |