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, illuminated only by

moon-beams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in

rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, 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 fruit 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

moon-light 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 of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent.

'I have 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

grasshoppers--and long may they be so! I hope to die among them,

monsieur. I 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 trembled, '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 moon-light 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 moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and

resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.




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