.

much mistake me, said his son; nothing could give me so much satisfaction as to see that cheerfulness renewed; the same cause of sorrow existed at that time, yet you was then cheerful.

      That I was then cheerful, said La Motte, you might, without flattery, have attributed to yourself; your presence revived me, and I was relieved at the same time from a load of apprehensions.

      Why then, as the same cause exists, are you not still cheerful?

      And why do you not recollect that it is your father you thus speak to?

      I do, Sir, and nothing but anxiety for my father could have urged me thus far: it is with inexpressible concern I perceive you have some secret cause of uneasiness; reveal it, Sir, to those who claim a share in all your affliction, and suffer them, by participation to soften its severity. Louis looked up, and observed the countenance of his father pale as death: his lips trembled while he spoke. Your penetration, however, you may rely upon it, has, in the present instance, deceived you: I have no subject of distress, but what you are already acquainted with, and I desire this conversation may never be renewed.

      If it is your desire, of course I obey, said Louis; but, pardon me, Sir, if —

      I will not pardon you, Sir, interrupted La Motte; let the discourse end here. Saying this, he quickened his steps; and Louis, not daring to pursue, walked quietly on till he reached the abbey.

      Adeline passed the greatest part of the day alone in her chamber, where, having examined her conduct, she endeavoured to fortify her heart against the unmerited displeasure of Madame La Motte. This was a task more difficult than that of self-acquittance. She loved her, and had relied on her friendship, which, notwithstanding the conduct of Madame, still appeared valuable to her. It was true, she had not deserved to lose it; but Madame was so averse to explanation, that there was little probability of recovering it, however ill-founded might be the cause of her dislike. At length she reasoned, or rather perhaps persuaded herself into tolerable composure; for to resign a real good with contentment is less an effort of reason than of temper.

      For many hours she busied herself upon a piece of work which she had undertaken for Madame La Motte; and this she did without the least intention of conciliating her favour, but because she felt there was something in thus repaying unkindness, which was suitable to her own temper, her sentiments, and her pride. Self-love may be the centre round which the human affections move; for whatever motive conduces to self-gratification may be resolved into self-love; yet some of these affections are in their nature so refined, that though we cannot deny their origin, they almost deserve the name of virtue. Of this species was that of Adeline.

      In this employment, and in reading, Adeline passed as much of the day as possible. From books, indeed, she had constantly derived her chief information and amusement: those belonging to La Motte were few, but well chosen; and Adeline could find pleasure in reading them more than once. When her mind was discomposed by the behaviour of Madame La Motte, or by a retrospection of her early misfortunes, a book was the opiate that lulled it to repose. La Motte had several of the best English poets, a language which Adeline had learned in the convent; their beauties, therefore, she was capable of tasting, and they often inspired her with enthusiastic delight.

      At the decline of day she quitted her chamber to enjoy the sweet evening hour, but strayed no further than an avenue near the abbey, which fronted the west. She read a little; but finding it impossible any longer to abstract her attention from the scene around; she closed the book, and yielded to the sweet complacent melancholy which the hour inspired. The air was still; the sun sinking below the distant hill, spread a purple glow over the landscape, and touched the forest glades with softer light. A dewy freshness was diffused upon the air. As the sun descended, the dusk came silently on, and the scene assumed a solemn grandeur. As she mused, she recollected and repeated the following stanzas:

NIGHT

      Now Evening fades! her pensive step retires,

      And Night leads on the dews and shadowy hours:

      Her awful pomp of planetary fires,

      And all her train of visionary powers.

      These paint with fleeting shapes the dream of sleep,

      These swell the waking soul with pleasing dread;

      These through the glooms in forms terrific sweep,

      And rouse the thrilling horrors of the dead!

      Queen of the solemn thought – mysterious Night!

      Whose step is darkness, and whose voice is fear!

      Thy shades I welcome with severe delight,

      And hail thy hollow gales, that sigh so drear!

      When wrapt in clouds, and riding in the blast,

      Thou roll'st the storm along the sounding shore,

      I love to watch the whelming billows cast

      On rocks below, and listen to the roar.

      Thy milder terrors, Night, I frequent woo

      Thy silent lightnings, and thy meteors' glare,

      Thy northern fires, bright with ensanguine hue,

      That light in heaven's high vault the fervid air.

      But chief I love thee, when thy hold car

      Sheds through the fleecy clouds a trembling gleam,

      And shows the misty mountain from afar,

      The nearer forest, and the valley's stream:

      And nameless objects in the vale below,

      That, floating dimly to the musing eye,

      Assume, at Fancy's touch, fantastic show,

      And raise her sweet romantic visions high.

      Then let me stand amidst thy glooms profound,

      On some wide woody steep, and hear the breeze

      That swells in mournful melody around,

      And faintly dies upon the distant trees.

      What melancholy charm steals o'er the mind!

      What hallow'd tears the rising rapture greet!

      While many a viewless spirit in the wind

      Sighs to the lonely hour in accents sweet!

      Ah! who the dear illusions pleased would yield,

      Which Fancy wakes from silence and from shades,

      For all the sober forms of Truth reveal'd,

      For all the scenes that Day's bright eye pervades!

      On her return to the abbey she was joined by Louis, who, after some conversation, said, I am much grieved by the scene to which I was witness this morning, and have longed for an opportunity of telling you so. My mother's behaviour is too mysterious to be accounted for, but it is not difficult to perceive she labours under some mistake. What I have to request is, that whenever I can be of service to you, you will command me.

      Adeline thanked him for this friendly offer, which she felt more sensibly than she chose to express. I am unconscious, said she, of any offence that may have deserved Madame La Motte's displeasure, and am therefore totally unable to account for it. I have repeatedly sought an explanation, which she has as anxiously avoided; it is better, therefore, to press the subject no farther. At the same time, Sir, suffer me to assure you, I have a just sense of your goodness. Louis sighed, and was silent. At length, I wish you would permit me, resumed he, to speak with my mother upon this subject; I am sure I could convince her of her error.

      By no means, replied Adeline: Madame La Motte's displeasure has given me inexpressible concern; but to compel her to an explanation, would only increase this displeasure, instead of removing it. Let me beg of you not to attempt it.

      I submit to your judgment, said Louis, but, for once, it is with reluctance. I should esteem myself most happy if I could be of service to you. He spoke this with an accent