paint to
you the grief of the son at his bereavement. He was, for a time, as
one distracted. The minister came and muttered a few cold and hollow
phrases in his ear, and a few neighbors, impelled by curiosity to see
the interior of the old man's dwelling, came to his funeral. With a
proud and lofty look the son stood beside the departed in the midst of
the band of hypocritical mourners, with a pang at his heart, but a
serenity on his brow. He thanked his friends for their kindness,
acknowledged their courtesy, and then strode away from the grave to
bury his grief in the privacy of his deserted dwelling.

"He found, at first, the solitude of the mansion almost insupportable,
and he paced the echoing floors from morning till night, in all the
agony of woe and desolation, vainly imploring Heaven for relief. It
came to him first in the guise of poetic inspiration. He wrote with a
wonderful ease and power. Page after page came from his prolific pen,
almost without an effort; and there was a time when he dreamed (vain
fool!) of immortality. Some of his productions came before the world.
They were praised and circulated, and inquiries were set on foot in
the hope of discovering the author. He, wrapped in the veil of
impenetrable obscurity, listened to the voice of applause, more
delicious because it was obtained by stealth. From the obscurity of
yonder lone mansion, and from this remote region, to send forth lays
which astonished the world, was, indeed, a triumph to the visionary
bard.

"His thirst for fame was gratified, and now he began to yearn for the
companionship of some sweet being of the other sex, to share the
laurels he had won, to whisper consolation in his ear in moments of
despondency, and to supply the void which the death of his old father
had occasioned. He would picture to himself the felicity of a refined
intercourse with a highly intellectual and beautiful woman, and, as he
had chosen for his motto, _What has been done may still be done_, he
did not despair of success. In this village lived three sisters, all
beautiful and all accomplished. Their names were Mary, Adelaide, and
Madeleine. I am far enough past the age of enthusiasm, but never can I
forget the beauty of those young girls. Mary was the youngest, and a
fairer-haired, more laughing damsel never danced upon a green.
Adelaide, who was a few years older, was dark haired and pensive; but
of the three, Madeleine, the eldest, possessed the most fire,