rmation,
independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Nor
were the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages,
since, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable qualify of her heart,
it now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, when
she could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them
by sympathy and tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel for
all, that could suffer.

Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to
hope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her
retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that she
ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the images
of past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge still
more the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither her
lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert and
her mother had so often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at that
still hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief.
The last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur and
Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter was
seized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods,
that surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory of
former times, that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess of
grief. She stopped, leaned for support against a tree, and wept for some
minutes, before she had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. The
little path, that led to the building, was overgrown with grass and the
flowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the border
were almost choked with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and the
nettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent and
forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the
fishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as when
I left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She went to
a window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes
fixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute
she had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of the
breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers among
the osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music more
in unison with her feelin