sorrow close darkly in; but to see unhoped-for happiness take form, find place, and grow more real as the seconds sped, was indeed a new experience.
"Lucy," said M. Paul, speaking low and still holding my hand, "did you see a picture in the boudoir of the old house?"
"I did; a picture painted on a panel."
"The portrait of a nun?"
"Yes."
"You heard her history?"
"Yes."
"You remember what we saw that night in the berceau?"
"I shall never forget it."
"You did not connect the two ideas; that would be folly?"
"I thought of the apparition when I saw the portrait," said I; which was true enough.
"You did not, nor will you fancy," pursued he, "that a saint in Heaven perturbs herself with rivalries of earth? Protestants are rarely superstitious; these morbid fancies will not beset you?"
"I know not what to think of this matter; but
