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 that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever.

As the postillion spoke this, made a cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting beside her and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.

look'd wistfully for some time at me, and then at her goat—and then at me—and then at her goat again, and so on, alternately

Well, Maria, said I softly—What resemblance do you find?