to the total exclusion of all other cares. She requested me to
hasten to her without delay, if I wished to see her before she died.

I took leave of the monks, and travelled with all speed to Paris, and
thence to Calais. Reaching Quillacq's hotel, I received a shock which,
although I apprehended danger, I was not prepared for. It was a letter
from Eugenia's agent, announcing her death. She had been seized with a
brain fever, and had died at a small town in Norfolk, where she had
removed soon after our last unhappy interview. The agent concluded his
letter by saying that Eugenia had bequeathed me all her property, which
was very considerable, and that her last rational words to him were that
I was her first and her only love.

I was now callous to suffering. My feelings had been racked to
insensibility. Like a ship in a hurricane, the last tremendous sea had
swept everything from the decks--the vessel was a wreck, driving as the
storm might chance to direct. In the midst of this devastation, I
looked around me, and the only object which presented itself to my mind,
as worthy of contemplation, was the tomb which contained the remains of
Eugenia and her child. To that I resolved to repair.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

With sorrow and repentance true,
Father, I trembling come to you.
SONG.

I arrived at the town where poor Eugenia had breathed her last, and near
to which was the cemetery in which her remains were deposited. I went
to the inn, whence, after having dismissed my post-boy and ordered my
luggage to be taken up to my room, I proceeded on foot towards the spot.
I was informed that the path lay between the church and the bishop's
palace. I soon reached it: and inquiring for the sexton, who lived in a
cottage hard by, requested he would lead me to a certain grave, which I
indicated by tokens too easily known.

"Oh, you mean the sweet young lady as died of grief for the loss of her
little boy. There it is," continued he, pointing with his finger; "the
white peacock is now sitting on the head-stone of the grave, and the
little boy is buried beside it."

I approached, while the humble sexton kindly withdrew, that I might,
without witnesses, indulge that grief which he saw was the burthen of my
aching heart. The bird remained, but without dressing its plumage,
without the usual air of surprise and vigilance evinced by domestic
fowls when disturbed in their haunts: this poor creature was moultin