taining Julie; but there was a purity in her every thought that spread a holy light around her, and he felt that the very idea was profanation.

In youth, we seldom let foresight give us much annoyance; and Charles Durand's resource was not to think upon the subject at all. He loved Julie as deeply as man can love; the idea of losing her was insupportable; and while the hours slipped away in her society, he would not debase such unalloyed happiness by one sordid care for the future.

Whether he heeded not, or saw it not, or from his long seclusion from the world and natural slowness of affection, did not perceive its consequences, Armand Villars took no notice of the growing intimacy between his daughter and young Durand. Probably he never saw it; for continuing to live in the same retirement, he suffered the presence of Charles to make scarce any change in his conduct. He had merely accorded him a dwelling in his house because he considered it a duty; and once in the course of each day he paid him a calm, cold visit, inquired after his health, and recommended him to the care of his daughter, for, he said, "that was more a woman's task than a man's;" and the rest of the day he passed in utter solitude.

In the mean time, Durand's health rapidly improved, and he was soon enabled to accompany Julie in her rambles along the banks of the Rhone. Oh what a new world was now open to her! Nature had acquired a brighter hue, pleasure a richness it never owned before. All, all delight was doubled by having some one to participate. There was a new state of being sprung up for her-the existence of mutual affection, an existence totally apart from every thing else of earth.

A great change, too, had taken place in all the feelings of Charles Durand. As he wandered on with Julie, he wondered that the beauties of nature had never before struck him as they did now. He asked himself what madness could have taught him to enjoy the false brightness, the unmeaning whirl, the lying gaiety of such a place as Paris; and as he looked at the fair simple girl by his side, he learned heartily to despise the artificial beings with whom he had been accustomed to mingle.

One bright summer evening they passed by the spot where they had first met. The same colouring was on the trees, the same bright hues were glowing in the west, but every thing was richer and lovelier in their eyes. "Oh, Julie!" said Charles, "how I shall ever bless this spot! I remember standing by yon old triumphal arch on the hill, and looking over the wide scene of abundance displayed below. It was rich, it was beautiful; but as I descended into this valley, there was a sweet calmness, a lovely repose, which left the heart nothing to wish for, and far more than compensated for the expanse of the other landscape. Surely it was a type of what I was to feel after having seen you. Before, the gay world of the capital, and its wide, indistinct society, seemed to offer a life of delight not to be met with anywhere else. But now, to be with you thus constantly, and separated from all the world but you, is a happiness far beyond my brightest dreams. It bas made me a miser, I would admit none to share it with me for worlds."

Julie answered nothing, but she looked up in Charles's face with a glance that he had no difficulty in translating. A moment after, the beam in her eye passed away, and was followed by a slight sigh.

Charles would needs have it translated too, and as he could not do it himself, he applied to its author. Julie said that she did not know she had sighed. Charles assured her that she certainly had.

"I was thinking at that moment," answered Julie," that I ought, as soon as possible, to communicate this to my father. Perhaps it was that which made me sigh; for though I am sure he loves me, yet he is naturally so stern, that sometimes he frightens me."

A cloud came over Charles Durand's brow; for she forcibly recalled his thoughts to the point from which he had long essayed to banish them, and he begged that she would delay the communication she proposed, until he had time to write to his father, and ask his consent to their union. Julie looked down, and contending emotions called the blood into her cheek. There was something in the idea of the least concealment repugnant to the bright candour of her mind, and she told Charles that she was sure it never could be right.

Concealment! Charles assured her that he never proposed such a thing. No, let their affection be as open as day. If her father himself perceived it, it was at once avowed; but if he did not, it would be better to wait till his father authorized him to demand her hand. He added several reasons, to which Julie replied nothing. She was not used to contend with any one, much less with one she loved; but her heart was not at ease. It was the first cloud which had obscured the morning of her life, and it cast a deeper shadow than she had fancied any thing could throw over her mind. They walked up the hill to the ruined arch of triumph, and gazed for a moment on the plain below, but Julie's heart did not expand to the scene. They turned again, and wandered down to the brook, but the valley had lost a portion of its peace.

Charles expressed a wish to rest there ere they returned. Julie seated herself in silence where she had been placed when first they met ; and Charles, placing himself by her side, tried to convince her that he was right, for he saw that she was not yet satisfied.

"I suppose," said she, turning to him with a smile, though it was rather a melancholy one "I suppose I ought to be convinced, for I have nothing to say in reply. But, at all events, be it as you think fit. Of course, I shall say nothing to my father until you approve of it-I have never yet wanted confidence in any one."

If the last sentence implied any thing reproachful, Charles did not, or would not, perceive it. He took Julie's hand and pressed it to his lips, while the colour mounted more deeply in her cheek, and her dark eyes were bent down upon the ground. What she had said, however, was overheard by another, whose presence neither Julie nor Charles had observed. Her father, by some chance, had that night turned his steps in the same direction that they had, and he now stood before them. Charles was the first who raised his eyes, and they instantly encountered the fixed, stern glance of Villars. Well, young man," said he, in a deep, bitter tone of voice, "you have rested with me long enough. You have accepted of my care, you have betrayed my hospitality, you have recovered from your illness, and now begone!"

Charles exculpated himself boldly, but to one that did not attend. He declared, again and again, that his every intention was most pure and honourable. "Whatever were your

"Honourable!" repeated Villars with a scoff.

intentions, he who could teach a child to deceive her father, is unworthy of my daughter. Begone, Sir! I hear no more-never let me see your face again! Come, weak girl," he added, turning to Júlie, down whose cheeks the tears were rolling in silent bitterness; "wipe away those tears, and do not let me think you unworthy of your race!" And he led her back to the chateau, passing on straight to his own library.

Julie covered her face with her hands. The tears were still running down her cheeks, and though she knew her father's inflexible nature, there was a remonstrance struggling in her heart to which she would have fain given utterance, but the stern glance of Villars, which never left her for a moment, frightened her, and took away her words.

An instant after, the old servant came in and told him that M. Durand desired to see him. Julie clasped her hands, and extended them with an imploring look towards her father. "Silence, child!" cried he. "Julie, not a word!" and followed the servant from the room.

Whatever might have passed between him and Charles, when he returned, there was a deeper spot upon his brow, and his step had something of angry haste in it as he advanced to where his daughter sate. “Julie,” said he, " on your duty to me as your father, I command you never to see that young man again!" Julie paused. "Do you hesitate, disobedient girl? Mark me, one moment more, and I cast you off for ever! Julie, you know me-I am not used to say what I do not perform. Promise me instantly never again willingly to see Charles Durand, or we are no longer father and child!"

It was a dreadful alternative, and Julie promised.

How blighting is the loss of what we love! Affection is as the sunshine of existence, and when it is gone, the rest is all darkness. The flowers of life, the beauties of being, are all obscured, and we wander blindly on through an unseen world, which might as well be a desert as a garden, in the deep shadow of that starless night.

It is not so much that which we have not, as that which we lose, that we sigh for. Had Julie never known the charm of mutual affection, all would still have been bright; but now, day after day went by, the blank of passing existence. At length the news reached her father that Charles had left Arles, and, sinking into his usual habits, he permitted Julie to pursue the rambles she had been accustomed to take. But nature to her had lost its loveliness. The flowers seemed withered, the song of the lark sounded harsh, and she wandered slowly on, occupied with sad thoughts. She raised her eyes to the arch of triumph on the hill above: there was a figure standing by it which passed quickly away, but it recalled to Julie the time she had first seen Charles Durand, and the hours they had spent there together; and placing the past happiness with the present sorrow, the contrast was too strong, and she wept bitterly.

Though she found no pleasure in the scenes that she had formerly loved, yet she had no inducement to return home; all there was cold, and she wandered on farther than had been her wont. She had proceeded nearly an hour, when she heard a quick step behind her. She knew not why, but it caused her an emotion of fear, and she hurried her pace. "Julie!" said a voice she could not mistake,—“ dear Julie, it is I." She turned, and Charles caught her in his arms, and pressed her fondly, but gently, to his bosom.

Julie said nothing, but hid her eyes upon his shoulder and wept; but the dreadful promise she had made her father was to be told, and at length, summoning all her resolution, she did so.

Charles did not appear so much surprised as she expected. "Julie," said he, "after the promise you have made, if we part, we part for ever-let us never part!"

It was a scheme he had formed immediately on quitting her father's house, and he now displayed it to Julie in the brightest colours it would admit of. He had been wandering about the country ever since, he said; his carriage had been always on the road prepared for a journey; he had counted much upon his Julie's love; he had procured a passport for Paris; the moment they arrived she should give him her hand at the altar; his father should use all means to soften hers, and there could be no doubt that Villars would soon relent. He pleaded with all the eloquence of love and hope; even despair lent him arguments. He had strong allies, too, in Julie's own breast; her love for him, her fear of her father, and the dreadful overwhelming thought, that, if she once parted from him, she should never see him again. A doubt of him never entered into her mind; but there was something in the idea of accompanying him alone to Paris, which made the blood rush into her cheek. All the delicacy of a pure mind, and the fear of doing wrong, caused her to shrink from the very thought; a thousand opposing feelings came one after another through her breast; and gazing anxiously in the face of her lover, "Oh no, no, Charles," she replied, " do not ask me ;" and striving to call up all her sense of duty, she added more firmly," Impossible!?

A deep, settled gloom, came over Charles's countenance-a calm, impressive look of despair. He took both Julie's hands in his, and pressed them twice to his lips. "Cruel girl!" he said in a low voice, which he strove to command to steadiness, "you love me less than I thought. Hear me," he said, seeing her about to speak; "hear me to the end, for your reply will be my doom. I am not rash, but I can never live without you. My fate is on your lips: am I to live or die? for, within an hour after you have quitted me, I shall have ceased to exist. Speak, Julie! do you bid me die? for that is the alternative." Julie gazed on him for a moment as if she scarcely comprehended the import of his words, and then again hid her eyes upon his shoulder and wept. "Speak, speak, Julie!" cried Charles.

What would you have me say?" she asked; "you force me to do what I think wrong. How can I refuse what you wish, when such is the alternative? Oh, Charles, it is you that are cruel now."

Charles caught eagerly at the concession. He thanked her again and again, and he seemed so happy, that Julie could scarce repent that she had yielded. Yet still she would have lingered; and as Charles led her gently on towards the spot where his carriage stood, he was obliged to display a thousand reasons to prove to her that she was doing right; for at every step she hung back, and though she wished much to believe herself justified, yet still the tears trickled down her cheeks, and her eyes dared not rise from the ground. But hesitation was now too late, and in a few minutes she was on the way to Paris.

During their whole journey Charles's conduct was a course of quiet, respectful attention: he strove to soothe Julie's mind, he sought to

amuse it, but he never suffered any gaiety to jar with the sorrowful tone of her feelings. He seemed to feel as painfully as she did the want of her father's approbation, but he endeavoured to oppose to that the bright prospect of their future happiness. He spoke of quitting all the luxuries of Paris for the sole delight of her society; to let their lives glide away in some beautiful part of the country, love gilding with its sunshine even the winter of their days. In short, he called up all the dreams that man is wont to form in the brighter stage of his existence, when young imagination_fashions out every distant object into some fair shape of its own; and so well did he image his wishes as hopes, and paint his hopes as certainties, that Julie suffered her mind to be carried a stage beyond reality, and forgot the uncomforts of the present in the bright future which he depicted.

It was night when they arrived in Paris, and an undefinable feeling of terror and loneliness spread over Julie's mind as she felt herself a stranger amongst the multitude. Charles seemed intuitively to enter into her feelings, and gently pressed her hand to his lips, as if he wished to tell her that there was at least one heart that beat warmly with hers.

After passing through several long, dimly-lighted streets, the carriage stopped at the hotel to which it had been directed, and Charles applied himself to make all those arrangements for Julie's comfort which she was hardly able to do for herself. "And now, Julie," said he, "there remains but one thing more: I will instantly go to my father's hotel and bring you his consent to our union."

"Oh, Charles, wait a moment, do not leave me yet," cried Julie; "I can bear any thing but solitude."

Charles pressed her to his bosom, and sitting down beside her, gazed fondly over every lovely feature, as she sat with her eyes bent upon the ground. She saw that he waited merely to gratify her, and that his mind was fixed upon the interview with his father; and at length, conquering her feelings, she bade him go.

"Show

Charles promised that he would instantly return, and left her; but at the same time he ordered his servant to stay at the hotel. Miss Villars," he said, "the same service as if she were your mistress, and my wife, which she will soon become."

As soon as Charles was gone, Julie burst into tears; she knew not why, but there was a deep depression of spirits hung over her which she could not dissipate, and she wept profusely. She had scarcely reasoned herself out of giving way to her grief, when Charles returned. "My father," said he, "is absent a few leagues from Paris, but he comes back to-morrow evening; so, dear Julie, my hopes must be delayed."

Charles saw that she had been weeping, but he took no notice, and applied himself during the evening to wean her thoughts from every subject of sorrow; and he succeeded, if not in entirely calming, at least in greatly soothing her mind. The journey had much fatigued her, and Charles left her at an early hour. "For your sake, Julie," he said, "I must not stay in the same hotel, but I will be with you early to-morrow."

It was Charles's task during the whole succeeding day to occupy Julie's thoughts by various subjects of interest, so as to prevent their