only!" He sprang forward _and fell at the feet of Julie_!

Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes;
_she_ did not undeceive him.

"You are wrong, you mistake," said Madame le Tisseur, in confusion;
"that is her cousin Julie,--this is your Lucille."

St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished
herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost
dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his prison-house
with dreams, and now, set free, he felt how unlike they were to the
truth. Too new to observation to read the woe, the despair, the lapse
and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned Lucille, he
yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over, that it was not
thus he should thank her who had restored him to sight. He hastened to
redeem his error--ah! how could it be redeemed?

From that hour all Lucille's happiness was at an end; her fairy palace
was shattered in the dust; the magician's wand was broken up; the
Ariel was given to the winds; and the bright enchantment no longer
distinguished the land she lived in from the rest of the barren
world. It is true that St. Amand's words were kind; it is true that he
remembered with the deepest gratitude all she had done in his behalf;
it is true that he forced himself again and again to say, "She is my
betrothed, my benefactress!" and he cursed himself to think that the
feelings he had entertained for her were fled. Where was the passion of
his words; where the ardour of his tone; where that play and light of
countenance which her step, her voice, could formerly call forth? When
they were alone he was embarrassed and constrained, and almost cold;
his hand no longer sought hers, his soul no longer missed her if she was
absent a moment from his side. When in their household circle he seemed
visibly more at ease; but did his eyes fasten upon her who had opened
them to the day; did they not wander at every interval with a too
eloquent admiration to the blushing and radiant face of the exulting
Julie? This was not, you will believe, suddenly perceptible in one
day or one week, but every day it was perceptible more and more. Yet
still--bewitched, ensnared, as St. Amand was he never perhaps would have
been guilty of an infidelity that he strove with the keenest remorse to
wrestle against, had it not been for the fatal contrast, at the first
moment of his gushing enthusiasm, which