whole course of the blood; and that the blood shall in turn communicate irregularities to the human understanding? What is that unknown fluid which certainly exists and which, quicker and more active than light, flies in less than the twinkling of an eye into all the channels of life—produces sensations, memory, joy or grief, reason or frenzy—recalls with horror what we would choose to forget, and renders a thinking animal, either a subject of admiration or an object of pity and compassion?
These were the reflections of the good old Gordon; and these observations, so natural, which men seldom make, did not prevent his feeling upon this occasion; for he was not of the number of those gloomy philosophers who pique themselves upon being insensible.
He was affected at the fate of this young woman, like a father who sees his dear child yielding to a slow death. The Abbé de St. Yves was desperate; the prior and his sister shed floods of tears; but who can describe the situation of her lover? All expression falls far short of the intensity of his affliction.
His aunt, almost lifeless, supported the head of the departing fair in her feeble arms; her brother was upon his knees at the foot of the bed; the lover squeezed her hand, which he bathed in tears; his groans rent the air, while he called her his guardian angel, his life, his hope, his better half, his mistress, his wife. At the word "wife," a sigh escaped her, while she looked upon him with inexpressible ten-
