Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 450 | Page 7

with
the assistance of that, and the money they had obtained upon selling the
farm, they contrived to manage very well during the first year. Lucille
made no complaint, and her mother thought she was happy. A Parisian
paid her attention, and asked her to become his wife. She refused; but
as he appeared rich, the mother would not hear of declining the offer.
She encouraged him to visit them as much as possible, and hoped at
length to overcome Lucille's dislike to the marriage. One evening,
however, as they were all seated together, a young man entered the
room. He had been an old lover of Lucille's--a neighbour's son, and an
early playmate. She sprang forward eagerly to meet him, and the rich
pretender left the place in a fit of jealous anger, and they have not seen
him since. Then troubles came, one following another, until at last they
fell into the state of destitution in which I found them. André Bernard,

who had quarrelled with his parents in order to follow them, could find
no work, and every sou that Lucille gained was given to him, to save
him, as she said, from ruin or from sin. Last week she sold her hair, to
enable him to return home. She had made him promise that he would
do so, and to night he is to leave Paris.'
'It is he, then, whom we saw arrested!' exclaimed Adelaide; 'and he will
not be able to return home. Oh, let us go to Lucille at once! Do, pray,
come with me, Madame d'Héranville!' and turning to her friend, she
pleaded so earnestly, and the large tears stood so imploringly in her
eyes, that it was impossible to resist. Madame d'Héranville refastened
her cloak, and soon afterwards, with Adelaide and M. Lagnier, found
herself ascending the steep and dilapidated staircase of the house
inhabited by the Delmonts. Adelaide seated herself upon the highest
step, to await the arrival of her friend, whose agility in mounting was
not quite equal to her own. As she did so, a loud and angry voice was
heard proceeding from the apartment to which this staircase led. It was
followed by a sound as of a young girl weeping, and then a few low,
half-broken sentences were uttered in a voice of heart-broken distress.
'Mother, dear mother,' were the words, 'do not torture me. I am so
ill--so wretched, I wish I were dead.'
'Ill! wretched! ungrateful girl!' was the reply. 'And whose fault is it that
you are so? Not mine! Blame yourself, if you will, and him, your
darling André. What will he do now that you have no more to give?
nothing even that you can sell, to supply him with the means of
gratifying his extravagance. You will soon see how sincere he is in his
affection, and how grateful he feels for all the sacrifices that you have
made--sacrifices, Lucille, that you would not have made for me.'
'Mother,' murmured the poor girl in a tone of heart-broken reproach, 'I
have given my beauty for him; but I have given my life for you.'
Adelaide listened no more. Shocked beyond measure at the misery
expressed in the low, earnest voice of Lucille, she knocked at the door
of the apartment, and scarcely waiting for permission, lifted the latch
and entered hurriedly.

Lucille was seated at a window working, or seeming at least to do so;
for her head was bent over a wreath of artificial flowers, through which
her emaciated fingers passed with a quick convulsive motion. It needed
not, however, a very nice observation to discover that the work
progressed but slowly. The very anxiety with which she exerted herself,
seemed to impede her movements, and the tears which fell from time to
time upon the leaves obscured her sight, and often completely arrested
her hand. She did not raise her head as Adelaide entered; too deeply
engrossed in her own sadness, she had not heard the opening of the
door, or her mother's exclamation of surprise, and Mademoiselle de
Varenne was at her side before she was in the least conscious of her
presence. Adelaide touched her gently on the arm.
'What is the matter, Lucille?' she asked. 'Tell me: I will do all I can to
help you.' At these words the mother interposed, and said softly: 'I am
sure, madame, you are very kind to speak so to her. I am afraid you will
find her an ungrateful girl; if you had heard her words to me just
now--to me, her own mother!'
'I did hear them,' returned Adelaide. 'She said she had given her life for
you. What did she mean? What did you mean, Lucille?' she asked,
gently addressing the young girl, whose face was buried