w scenes
and pursuits at length roused his interest, and incited him to mental
exertion. With the return of spring also, hopes, which he believed
forever crushed, began to regain their influence in his mind. He was
about to revisit England, on some affairs of consequence; and he
resolved to improve the opportunity to satisfy his anxiety respecting
Lucie, and learn, if possible, what he had still left to hope or fear.
But an alarming illness, which attacked his mother, and left her long in
a dangerous state, obliged him to defer his design; and another winter
passed away, and various circumstances still rendered the voyage
impracticable. Time gradually softened, but it could not destroy, the
impression of his ill-fated attachment; and, though the image of Lucie
was still cherished in his remembrance, he began to regard the days of
their happy intercourse as a pleasant dream which had passed away,--a
delightful vision of the fancy, which he loved to contemplate, but could
never hope to realise.

It was, indeed, with emotions too powerful for disguise, that he found
himself again, and so unexpectedly, in the presence of his beloved
Lucie. He was ignorant of the name, even, of the relative to whom Mad.
Rossville had entrusted her,--he had not the most distant idea, that she
was connected with the lady of La Tour; and, in approaching the fort of
St. John's, he little thought, that he was so near the goal of his
wishes. But the first joyful sensations were not unmingled with doubt
and alarm. He found her lovely and attractive, as when he had last seen
her; but, since that time, what changes had taken place, and how might
her heart have altered! De Valette, young, handsome, and agreeable,
confessed himself her lover; he was the favorite of her guardians, and
what influence had he, or might he not obtain, over her affections!

Such reflections of mingled pain and pleasure occupied the mind of
Stanhope, and alternate hopes and fears beguiled the midnight hour, and
banished every idea of repose.

CHAPTER VIII.

I pray you have the ditty o'er again!
Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing,
The lover's one for me. I could expire
To hear a man, with bristles on his chin,
Sing soft, with upturn'd eyes, and arched brows,
Which talk of trickling tears that never fall.
Let's have it o'er again.

J.S. KNOWLES.

The meditations of Stanhope were suddenly interrupted by the