I had hardly time to observe that she was wasted and pale, ere called to feel a responsive inward pleasure by the sense of most full and exquisite pleasure glowing in the animated flush, and shining in the expansive light, now diffused over my pupil's face.

It was the summer sun flashing out after the heavy summer shower; and what fertilizes more rapidly than that beam, burning almost like fire in its ardour?
I hate boldness--that boldness which is of the brassy brow and insensate nerves; but I love the courage of the strong heart, the fervour of the generous blood; I loved with passion the light of Frances Evans' clear hazel eye when it did not fear to look straight into mine; I loved the tones with which she uttered the words-- "Mon maitre! mon maitre!" I loved the movement with which she confided her hand to my hand; I loved her as she stood there, penniless and parentless; for a sensualist charmless, for me a treasure--my best object of sympathy on earth, thinking such thoughts as I thought, feeling such feelings as I felt; my ideal of the shrine in which to seal my stores of love; personification of discretion and forethought, of diligence and perseverance, of self-denial and self-control--those guardians, those trusty keepers of the gift I longed to confer on her--the gift of all my affections; model of truth and honour, of independence and conscientiousness--those refiners and sustainers of an honest life; silent possessor of a well of tenderness, of a flame, as genial as still, as pure as quenchless, of natural feeling, natural passion--those sources of refreshment and comfort to the sanctuary of home.

I knew how quietly and how deeply the well bubbled in her heart; I knew how the more dangerous flame burned safely under the eye of reason; I had seen when the fire shot up a moment high and vivid, when the accelerated heat troubled life's current in its channels; I had seen reason reduce the rebel, and humble its blaze to embers.

I had confidence in Frances Evans; I had respect for her, and as I drew her arm through mine, and led her out of the cemetery, I felt I had another sentiment, as strong as confidence, as firm as respect, more fervid than either--that of love.
"Well, my pupil," said I, as the ominous sounding gate swung to behind us--"Well, I have found you again: a month's search has seemed long, and I little thought to have discovered my lost sheep straying amongst graves." Never had I addressed her but as "Mademoiselle" before, and to speak thus was to take up a tone new to both her and me.

Her answer suprised me that this language ruffled none of her feelings, woke no discord in her heart: "Mon maitre," she said, "have you troubled yourself to seek me?
I little imagined you would think much of my absence, but I grieved bitterly to be taken away from you.