nks. Adieu, adieu! Come, Aurore!"

I was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. It had
impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for Eugenie
Besancon;--more than friendship--sympathy: for I could not resist the
belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril--that over that young
heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering.

I felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,--nothing more. And why
nothing more? Why did I not love her, young, rich, beautiful? Why?

Because I loved another--_I loved Aurore_!

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A LOUISIAN LANDSCAPE.

Life in the chamber of an invalid--who cares to listen to its details?
They can interest no one--scarce the invalid himself. Mine was a daily
routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections--a monotony,
broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being
I loved. At such moments I was no longer _ennuye_; my spirit escaped
from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed
an Elysium.

Alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes' duration, while the
intervals between them were hours--long hours--so long, I fancied them
days. Twice every day I was visited by my fair host and her companion.
Neither ever came alone!

There was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. My
conversation was with the _Creole_, my thoughts dwelt upon the
_Quadroon_. With the latter I dare but exchange glances. Etiquette
restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world
could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but
expressive language.

Even in this there was constraint. My love-glances were given by
stealth. They were guided by a double dread. On one hand, the fear
that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the
Quadroon. On the other, that they might be too well understood by the
Creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. I never dreamt
that they might awaken jealousy--I thought not of such a thing. Eugenie
was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone
of voice there was no sign of love. Indeed the terrible shock
occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a
complete change in her character. The sylph-like elasticity of her
mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her.
From a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. She was not
the le