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and during that period I sat alone in my little boudoir, happy as ever young maiden could be, till I heard the door of the library shut, and I knew the hours of study were over. Then I listened for the sound of footsteps, and with a joyous heart I used to hear my father's pupil come silently into my room, and hang over my chair, with some offering of flowers and fruit for chere Lucille. He gave me birds, and books, and plants, and all that could make my home happier. At length-time passed on rapidly-his education was finished, and the day was appointed for him to leave. It was the first grief I had ever known, and I shut myself up in my room alone to weep. The day on which the letter came to recall him | I saw him not, nor my father, for he had gone to see some friends at a distance, and the servant told me his pupil was in the library reading, and we remained apart the whole day. Toward evening my heart began to break with grief, and I laid my head on the table, and sobbed aloud. I could not bear to lose my kind companion, and I wept with passionate earnestness at his coldness-till I felt a hand laid affectionately on my shoulder, and I saw him standing looking attentively in my face.

Spare me the recital of all that passed then," cried Lucille, raising her clasped hands to Ida imploringly. "Suffice it to say, that in six months he promised to return and claim me as his bride, and bear me to these shores. He left us, and six months passed away and he came not ; I heard nought of him. My life became a burden, and my heart was breaking, and I came to the rash determination to quit my home in search of my faithless lover.

"It was a lovely moonlight night, cloudless and starry ; I could not sleep, and I felt my brain grow dizzy with suffering ; my head burnt with pain. It was the work of a moment to throw my shawl round me, and take with me my beloved harp, and before dawn I was far away from my father, an alien and a beggar." Here Lucille paused, as though the intensity of her feelings would not allow her to proceed, and sat weeping silently till Ida fondly took her hand in hers, and asked if she had found her lover. "Oh, no, no ; if I had I would not be here ; I would go back to my poor old father and ask his forgiveness. I would bear that faithless one to our peaceful home, which for two long years I have not beheld, and in quietude pass the remainder of my life." "Can you tell me the name of your false lover ? Do you remember him perfectly now ?" said Ida softly. 66 Tell me, and if I can aid you in finding him I will." “ Remember him ! Oh, I shall remember him until I die," sobbed Lucille, " and on my heart is engraved the name of Ferdinand Beresford." A change passed over the beautiful countenance of Ida, and a deadly paleness overspread her cheeks and

lips. She could not speak ; and save the convulsive throbbing of the veins on her marble brow, there was no sign of life. The shock had come suddenly but surely, and Ida was from that hour a changed creature. Lucille stood by her for a moment in silence, till a thought seemed to cross her brain, she sank down beside her, clasping her hands in agony, and hoarse with emotion exclaimed, " You know him ! you have seen him ! Oh, restore him to me, my long-lost Ferdinand ! Give me but a hope that I may yet see him once more, and I die in peace ! Oh, say he is not wedded ; I cannot bear suspense-my heart is breaking-I beseech you tell me all- shall we ever meet again ?” In a wild manner Lucille uttered these incoherent expressions, and Ida, with an effort at self-control, rose up to answer her enquiries ::-"Return to-night at nine, and you shall meet Mr. Beresford," was all she could say. Her heart seemed filled with restrained emotion, and she again sunk back on her couch. To describe the joy of Lucille is impossible ; her burst of deep gratitude to Ida: her ardent love for her old companion ; and her sorrow for the grief she had occasioned her poor father ; all seemed in turn to animate her bosom ; but even there a tender regard for Ida predominated, and she looked with an anguish on the woe she had caused. It was not for some time that Lucille could be prevailed on to leave her new-found friend ; but, at the earnest entreaties of Ida to leave her to repose, she at length consented. Ida lay still in bitter misery ; her heart's best hope was gone. To know he had loved another was madness ; to believe he still loved her was a torturing agony ; and Ida allowed herself to doubt he remembered that Lucille Beranger existed ; but she was deceiving herself: Ferdinand Beresford loved with earnest devotedness his betrothed Lucille. He was not to blame ; he had acted nobly to his parents ; he had told them he loved his tutor's daughter, and resolved, on attaining his majority, to wed her. He was answered by taunts, threats, and revilings ; forbidden to hold the least communication with his betrothed, and finally thrown, by the consummate art of his sister, Lady Vesey, into the society of Ida Ilderton, to win his thoughts from the young French maiden. All their efforts failed ; he burst their chains asunder, but it was too late. The letter announcing to Lucille his faithfulness, his continued love, reached its destination two days after she had quitted her home, and was never answered. He wrote again, thrice, but no tidings came ; till at length he received his letter back, with the mournful news that his old preceptor was dead, and his once happy daughter a voluntary wanderer in other lands. Here all intercourse ceased, and Ferdinand Beresford mourned over his faithless Lucille. It was impossible for him to recognize in the wandering Harpiste his favorite companion ; her voice bore no