ulders, entered the
room. Her dark, bright eyes flashed as she caught the first sight of
Jerome. The gentleman immediately arose on the entrance of the lady, and
Mr. Devenant was in the act of introducing the stranger when he observed
that Jerome had sunk back upon the sofa, in a faint voice exclaiming,--

"It is she!"

After this, all was dark and dreary. How long he remained in this
condition, it was for others to tell. The lady knelt by his side and
wept; and when he came to, he found himself stretched upon the sofa with
his boots off and his head resting upon a pillow. By his side sat the
old man, with the smelling-bottle in one hand and a glass of water in
the other, while the little boy stood at the foot of the sofa. As soon
as Jerome had so far recovered as to be able to speak, he said,--

"Where am I, and what does all this mean?"

"Wait awhile," replied the old man, "and I will tell you all."

After the lapse of some ten minutes, Jerome arose from the sofa,
adjusted his apparel, and said,--

"I am now ready to hear anything you have to say."

"You were born in America?" said the old man.

"I was," he replied.

"And you knew a girl named Clotelle," continued the old man.

"Yes, and I loved her as I can love none other."

"The lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening was she," said Mr.
Devenant.

Jerome was silent, but the fountain of mingled grief and joy stole out
from beneath his eyelashes, and glistened like pearls upon his ebony
cheeks.

At this juncture, the lady again entered the room. With an enthusiasm
that can be better imagined than described, Jerome sprang from the sofa,
and they rushed into each other's arms, to the great surprise of the old
gentleman and little Antoine, and to the amusement of the servants who
had crept up, one by one and were hid behind the doors or loitering in
the hall. When they had given vent to their feelings and sufficiently
recovered their presence of mind, they resumed their seats.

"How did you find out my name and address?" inquired Jerome.

"After you had left the grave-yard," replied Clotelle, "our little boy
said, 'Oh, mamma! if there ain't a book!' I opened the book, and saw
your name written in it, and also found a card of the Hotel de Leon.
Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was only a fancy of mine that
I had ever seen you before; but I was perfectly convinced that you were
my own dear Jerome."

As she uttered the last words, tears