their accounts to Lucy, as they used to do to her father. When she came to acquire a detailed knowledge of all her possessions, the poor girl felt almost terrified; and she asked herself, what use it could be to her to be so rich, and what she could do with all this wealth.

So slipped away part of the winter. Clorinda-such was the name of Lucy's aunt-had very comfortably taken up her home at the Château de Sens. There was in her manners a certain cheerful good-humour, which made her invitations generally acceptable, and dazzled the good country neighbours. Lucy tried hard over and over again to love this relation, who made so many friends, but she felt it to be impossible, and Adrienne partook entirely of her impressions in this respect.

There happened at that moment to be much public talk about the arrival at Toulouse of a famous Italian singer, who was to give some concerts. Urged by Clorinda, Lucy consented to go, and pass some weeks in that town, and Adrienne accompanied them. The very evening of their arrival, the ladies went to the theatre: the singer fully justified his reputation, so our fair friends did not miss one concert. One evening Lucy, who always chose a place in the background, heard a few words uttered in the next box, and instantly recognised that voice, which had never ceased vibrating in her innermost soul: it was he! A few minutes later, Adrienne laughingly whispered to her friend: Lucy, you have certainly captivated a handsome gentleman seated in the next box, for he does not take his eyes off you. The emotion of the poor blind girl may be easily imagined. She felt disposed to faint, but was suddenly roused by a sort of universal agitation, which broke out through the whole audience. A strong smell of fire, and a good deal of smoke filled the house, and cries of Fire! fire!' were heard. Lucy's aunt darted out of the box, and Adrienne fainted. What on earth was to be done? What was to become of them? Lucy turned towards the box where had been heard Henry Lisson's voice, and named him. In one moment he was by her side, told her to depend

upon him, took the fainting Adrienne in his arms, and entreated Lucy to follow him, which she did, clinging, unperceived by him, to Adrienne's dress. As soon as the latter was borne into the open air, she recovered. A carriage was found, and the two friends got in, pouring forth fervent thanks to their preserver.

Of course, Mr Henry next morning called at their hotel. Lucy, yielding to an instinctive wish of delaying a painful discovery, sent word she should be happy to receive his visit in the evening. It is proper to remark here, that in Lucy the eyes were in no way disfigured, and even without any veil, at first sight, her infirmity might have passed unobserved. Mr Henry Lisson, who had only seen her once by daylight, and then her veil was, as usual, down, could have no idea that she was blind.

In the evening, Mr Lisson returned to pay his respects. Lucy and Adrienne received him. The conversation naturally turned at first upon the yesterday's alarm of fire. Lucy found once more in the young artist that cordial politeness, those amiable manners, which had struck her before. She even fancied that she discerned in his voice, when he addressed himself to her, a certain tenderness of intonation. She took good care not to call for lights, but this did not appear extraordinary, for the air was so pure and balmy, that the party continued to sit and chat upon a balcony overlooking the public walk. When the moment came for taking leave, the voice of the young man betrayed a slight vexation. He hoped to have the pleasure next day, he said, of seeing the ladies—dwelling with a marked emphasis on the word seeing.

The following evening he came at the same hour, and he was scarcely seated when he began with: "Miss Lucy, I have brought one of my drawings, of which I wish to have your judgment. It is a sketch of that very picturesque spot where I met you the first time. When the candles come, you will see whether I have succeeded.'

No further delay was possible. Lucy rang for lights in a state of inexpressible agitation. Adrienne, who

guessed what her friend felt, put her arm round her waist. Lucy took the drawing in her hand, and bursting into tears, Mr Lisson,' said she, the light of the lamp just placed on the chimney is shed around in vain for me. Look at me: I cannot see what you shew ine: I am blind!'

This unexpected revelation struck the young painter dumb. After a few minutes, however, he sought to excuse himself with much emotion. 'Forgive me, Miss

Lucy,' said he; ‘I have very unintentionally caused you much pain.'

From this moment, Henry became more kind, more tender. His visits were renewed every day, and his conversations with Lucy grew more and more intimate. For her part, the poor girl let herself go to the bent of her inclination. And why should he not love me?' thought she. ‹ After all, what is vain bodily defect compared to the treasures of tenderness I feel in my heart? Cannot these suffice to make a man happy, who is himself susceptible of generous affection?'

Lucy's aunt, too, had taken a great fancy for the young artist; and when the little party left Toulouse, she did not hesitate to give Mr Lisson a pressing invitation to the Château de Sens; and a fortnight later, he joined the ladies there. His manners towards Lucy were as respectful and affectionate as ever. He shewed continual solicitude for her. If there was a hedge to get through, or a stile to be crossed, his attention on such occasions took a peculiar character for her. He it was who always appeared the least venturous, so that he contrived to make her forget her unfortunate infirmity. One day he said to her: My choice is decidedly fixed. I shall be a statuary;' and at the same time he presented to her a bust of herself he had just finished. What a delightful surprise to her!

It was a beautiful summer evening, and Lucy and Henry were sitting together on the terrace, enjoying the breezes perfumed with the new-mown hay. They had been chatting a long time. Lucy had been trying, by a

deep analysis of her own impressions, to make him understand those combinations of the senses of touch, of hearing, and perhaps also of smell, which rendered present for her the palpable forms of things. She was telling him, that it seemed as if an indefinable moral force united her to those around her, to those who were dear to her, by ties the strength of which nothing could equal; for instance, that it was impossible for her to imagine that there existed a means by which she could feel better than she did at that moment that he was there before her-beside her.

Lucy's words became very impressive, and presently she thought she perceived that Henry made a sudden gesture, which he as suddenly repressed with a sigh. A moment after, having herself made a slight movement, something fell from her waist: it was a rose which he had given her the day before. Henry picked it up, and pressed it to his lips. Lucy perceived this, and, carried away by an irresistible impulse, she said: 'Henry, can you love a poor infirm being like me?' For the first time, then, Henry gave vent to his feelings. At the very first sight of Lucy in the valley by the side of the stream, he had felt one of those mysterious impressions, which can only be compared to an electric shock. This feeling had been strengthened when he met her on two or three different occasions, but he really loved only from the moment her infirmity was revealed to him; for his was one of those choice natures whose affections live in devotion and sacrifice. Lucy was her own mistress. The two lovers exchanged their vows in the face of heaven.

But this happiness was destined to be too soon imbittered. Clorinda began to have some idea of the real state of things. A marriage between Henry and her niece would have overthrown certain projects of her own, with which we shall become acquainted presently, and on which she had set her heart. She made haste, therefore, to pour into Lucy's mind the poison of an odious suspicion. It was very evident, she told her niece, that all Henry sought was her fortune. How could she hope, continued

the good lady, afflicted as she was with the greatest misfortune that could affect the beauty of a woman, that she had the capability of inspiring with a real passion a handsome young man, who might have his choice of the most beautiful? This insinuation struck poor Lucy to the heart, and she became deeply unhappy. Henry perceived the change, and pressed her for an explanation of the cause. Lucy at once gave it him, repeating word for word what her aunt had said.

It is unnecessary to relate the indignation and the protestations of the young artist. And yet,' added he, 'your aunt only holds the language of the world. Yes; for the vulgar, she is in the right. I have no fortune, and of course I must be a fortune-hunter, who am paying you court for your money. The world always supposes some vile calculation, because society is full of such. In the eyes of the great number, a noble elevation of feeling, a devoted attachment, is mere romance. Such odious suspicions shall not soil the purity of the tenderness with which you have inspired me. It shall not be said, that you have allowed yourself to be carried away by a thoughtless impulse. No! Try me. I will submit with joy: I will work to deserve you: I will earn fame and fortune; and when I shall come, and lay them at your feet, people must then acknowledge that it is you I loved, and not your riches.'

We will pay this We will delay With these words,

Yes,' answered Lucy; 'let it be so. tribute to the world and its prejudices. our happiness, to render it more solid.' she took from her finger a ring, and gave it to Henry, saying: 'My friend, your betrothed gives you this: your bride will receive it back with joy, when you judge the hour come to bring it to her.' It was agreed that Henry Lisson, immediately after Adrienne's marriage, should leave the château, where her wedding was to take place in a few days, for Adrienne was just about to marry one of her cousins, to whom she was greatly attached, and who loved her tenderly. The day following that of the marriage was indeed a sad day for Lucy, who lost at