SAMUEL J. NORTON.
Mrs. Dubois not having but one pair of eyes, and those being fully occupied with the contents of the above letter, and the Count de Rossillon remaining asleep during the entire reading, of course it could not be expected that they observed the changes that took place on Adele’s countenance. But an author, as is well known, has ways and means of observation not common to others, and here it may be remarked, that that young lady’s face, had exhibited, during the last fifteen minutes, or more, quite a variety of emotions. It had at first, been thoughtful and interested, then lighted with smiles, then radiant with enjoyment of the good missionary’s sketches of Mrs. McNab and Micah. But the moment her mother read the name of John Lansdowne, her face was suffused with a deep crimson, and she listened almost breathlessly, and with glistening eyes, to the close.
“Oh! the good noble man!” said Mrs. Dubois, as she folded up the sheets. “It will please your father to read this, where is he, Adele?”
“He rode away with Pierre, not long ago. Please let me take the letter. I must read it again”, said Adele, having conquered her emotion, without her mother perceiving it.
She took it away to her own boudoir, and as she read the pages, the flowing tears fell fast. Why should she weep over such a cheerful letter as that? Why?
THE LAST SLEEP.
Adele had long since discovered that the events of greatest interest in her life had transpired before she entered the walls of Rossillon, or mingled in the festivities of the Court at Paris.
The scenes that occurred at Miramichi, during Mr. Lansdowne’s accidental residence there, were fraught with a power over her heart, continually deepening with the flight of time. Those golden days, when their lives flowed side by side, had been filled with the strange, sweet agitations, the aerial dreams, the bewitching glamour, the intoxicating happiness of a first and youthful love. Those days were imprinted yet more deeply in her memory by a consciousness that there was somewhat with which to reproach herself connected with them. Just when she had reached the top of bliss, her pride had sprung up, and like a dark stormcloud, had shadowed the scene. She could not forget that cold, sad parting from her lover.
And now, though the ocean rolled between them, and the spheres in which each moved were so widely separated and the years had come and gone, she was yet calculating and balancing the probabilities, that they might meet again and the wrong of the past be cancelled.