Oh! my brother, it was she! more beautiful than ever, by the dying light of the fire.

It was she!--the woman whose memory had ever lived in my heart.

At the cry which I uttered the servant looked narrowly at me.

'Thanks, monsieur,' said he, again; 'you see the fire is out; go, I beg of you.' "'My friend,' said I, 'you dismiss me very rudely.' 'Madame,' said he, 'it is he.' 'Who ?' 'The young man we met in the garden, and who followed us home.' She turned toward me and said, 'Monsieur, I beg of you to go.' I hesitated; I wished to speak, but my words failed me.

I remained motionless and mute, gazing at her.