One memory, sadder, was also dearer to her than all things; and something sacred in its recollections made her deem it even a crime to think of effacing the past by a new affection.
"I believe," continued Madame le Tisseur, angrily, "that thou still thinkest fondly of him from whom only in the world thou couldst have experienced ingratitude." "Nay, Mother," said Lucille, with a blush and a slight sigh, "Eugene is married to another." While thus conversing, they heard a gentle and timid knock at the door; the latch was lifted.

"This," said the rough voice of a _commissionaire_ of the town, "this, monsieur, is the house of Madame le Tisseur, and _voila mademoiselle_!" A tall figure, with a shade over his eyes, and wrapped in a long military cloak, stood in the room.

A thrill shot across Lucille's heart.

He stretched out his arms.

"Lucille," said that melancholy voice, which had made the music of her first youth, "where art thou, Lucille?
Alas! she does not recognize St.Amand." Thus was it indeed.