will trust him no longer with the care of
his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our
children!'

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner
in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and
Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value
of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of
disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave
something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but
Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was
now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was
yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a
sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and
distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to himself, 'would make this poor
family completely happy--it is in my power to give it--to make them
completely happy! But what is to become of me?--how shall I contrive
to reach home with the little money that will remain?' For a moment he
stood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to
happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with
so small a sum as would be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared:
his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with
the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His
forlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down
all the money he had, except a very few louis, and bounded away
after St. Aubert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep.
Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light as at this moment; his
gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around him appeared more
interesting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon
vivacity of his countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said he.
'O what a lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun
shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeed
enchanting,' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to
understand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity that
the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their days
in gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my young friend,
may the sun always shine as brightly as at this momen