friend. “This is his garden,” answered she, opening the gate, “and there he sits in his bower.” Before I could answer a word, my fair guide dropped me a courtesy, and disappeared among the bushes. At my first setting out upon my journey, I had strongly anticipated the pleasure of seeing my friend again; but now that I was near him, I found myself troubled and agitated. What I had seen in the vault of the ruined chateau,—what I had heard relating to the mysterious death of the young girl, so strongly occupied my mind, and absorbed all my faculties, that when I approached the bower, where the minister reposed, I scarcely recognized him. At the time I quitted him, he was an elderly, but hale and vigorous man; and I now beheld a venerable face of four score. When I entered the bower, the old gentleman rose to meet me. He took off his cap—his silver hair played in the evening breeze, and his clear blue eye gave me a friendly welcome: it was his old, well remembered, loving look. I took his hand and said, “Do you not know me?” He looked at me, shook his head, and pleaded old age as an excuse for his want of memory. “Dear Clairval,” said I again, “do you not even know my voice?” There passed a ray of joy over the old man’s face; with both his hands he parted my hair from forehead, and gazed earnestly in my eyes:—“Count Ferdinand! my dear, dear son!” exclaimed he, and sunk upon my breast.—After a quarter of an hour’s conversation, every trace, which time and care had impressed on his face, appeared to have vanished; he became animated by my presence, and I was again young in my memory. There were so many things to be inquired after, that time ran quickly away; and so strongly did the past occupy our minds, that the present was lost entirely.—At length, when we were about retiring to partake of a slight repast, he said, “I thank God doubly for having sent you to-day—for it has been a sad and heavy one, and I feel I shall not see many more. I have lost one child, and heaven blesses me with the sight of another before I close these eyes for ever.”—This brought me, of course, upon the mysterious manner of the death of the young girl, and upon my visit to the vault.—“How strange!” replied he, “you have then been at the vault! For many years not a human being has been there except myself. The peasants avoid that part of the gardens—and the spring in the wall is a secret.—Indeed,” added he, after a pause, “there is a mystery about the death of my poor Rosa! I loved her as my daughter,—she was innocent and beautiful, like Eve before her fall. Poor, poor girl! Fright was the cause of her death;—she had seen the WHITE LADY.”—“The white Lady!” exclaimed I. “Is it possible that I can hear such a thing from your mouth? I heard something of that kind from the peasants, but I treated it as a mere superstition; and now I hear you gravely repeating the very same thing!” He smiled and said, “God is a mystery, and his works are not less so. Let this suffice you. Philosophy kindles her torch only to show us that we are really in darkness. The White Lady does appear. However, I strictly forbade the peasantry to talk about it, as it is a subject not fit for them.—Do you recollect the letter I wrote you ten years ago, in which I wished you joy on your quitting France?” “Certainly I do!” interrupted I, with vivacity; “I have often been astonished—more than astonished, in recollecting how clearly you unfolded the abyss of time before my eyes: all that was dark when I received your letter, became after-
