of acquiring. This, believe me my dear Madeline, is not the case; I know what it is: when we extend our hand for the rose to gather the thorns—when we open our bosom to hope, to admit despair—when we bask in the sunshine, to be surprised by the storm, and have it burst with fury o'er our unsheltered heads."
"Oh, from every adverse storm may you be sheltered!" exclaimed Madeline, with uplifted eyes.
As she spoke, Father Bertrand, confessor to the Countess, and officiating priest to her household, stopped before the window: he belonged to the community which has been already mentioned, and frequently rambled at the close of day from his convent, to the wild solitudes of the wood surrounding the chateau. He was upwards of sixty, and one of those interesting figures which cannot be viewed by sensibility without pity and veneration; his noble height still gave an idea of what his form had been, when unbent by
