hour?"

"Oh, Arthur," she replied, "you know not half the changes which have
taken place since you were here, or you would not ask why I am pale and
pensive! this is the grave of my kindest relative; till you came, I
almost thought of my last friend!"

"Good heavens! of your aunt, Lucie; of Madame de la Tour?"

A burst of tears, which she could no longer restrain, was Lucie's
answer; her feelings had, of late, been severely tried, and it was many
moments before her own exertions, or the soothings of affection
succeeded in calming her emotions. A long conversation ensued; each had
much to say, and Lucie, in particular, many events to communicate. But
as the narrative was often interrupted by question and remark, and
delayed by the expression of those hopes and sentiments which lovers are
wont to intersperse in their discourse, we shall omit such
superfluities, and sum up, as briefly as possible, all that is necessary
to elucidate our story.

Madame de la Tour's constitution was too delicate to bear the rigor of a
northern climate, and from her first arrival in Acadia, her health began
almost imperceptibly to decline. She never entirely recovered from the
severe indisposition which attacked her in the autumn, though the vigor
and cheerfulness of her mind long resisted the depressing influence of
disease. But she was perfectly aware of her danger even before the bloom
faded from her cheek sufficiently to excite the alarm of those around
her. It was a malady which had proved fatal to many of her family; and
she had too often witnessed its insidious approaches in others, to be
deceived when she was herself the victim. Towards the close of winter,
she was confined entirely to her apartment, and Lucie, and the faithful
Annette, were her kind and unwearied attendants. Her decline was from
that time rapid, but it was endured with a fortitude which had
distinguished her in every situation of life. Still young, and with
much to render existence pleasant and desirable, she met its close with
cheerful resignation, surrounded by the weeping objects of her love. On
Lucie's affectionate heart her untimely death left a deep and lasting
impression. She felt desolate indeed, thus deprived of the only
relative, with whom she could claim connexion and sympathy.

The parental tie so lately discovered, and which had opened to Lucie a
new spring of tenderness, became a source of painful anxiety. Father
Gilbert,--so we shall still call hi