paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed
upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what
further Theresa had heard. 'Yet why should I ask?' she added; 'what
you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone--forever
gone! and I--I have murdered thee!' These words, and the countenance of
despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that
the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her
senses. 'My dear young lady, be composed,' said she, 'and do not say
such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,--dear heart!' Emily
replied only by a heavy sigh.

'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,' said Theresa, 'do
not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;
it frightens me to see you.' Emily was still silent, and did not
appear to hear any thing that was said to her. 'Besides, mademoiselle,'
continued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what
we know.'

At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a
wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what
had been said. 'Aye, my dear lady,' said Theresa, mistaking the meaning
of this considerate air, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.'

On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but,
instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten
her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,
with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and
shuddered.

Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to
comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter
blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a
warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine.
'It is a stormy night, madam,' said she, 'and blows cold--do come nearer
the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has
done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day;
it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent
me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have served me,
ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, and
what kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, you
are not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I
will s