sight of her lover, who seemed still in search of it, though incapable of observing any object.
In the midst of this spectacle of death, while the dead body was exposed at the door of the house; while two priests by the side of the holy-font water were repeating prayers with an air of distraction; while some passengers, through idleness, sprinkled the bier with some drops of holy water, and others went their ways quite indifferent; while her relations were drowned in tears, and every one thought the lover would not survive his loss—in this situation St. Pouange arrived with his female Versailles friend.
He alighted from his coach, and the first object that presented itself was the bier; he turned away his eyes with that simple distaste of a man bred up in pleasures, and who thinks he should avoid a spectacle which might recall him to the contemplation of human misery. He was inclined to go upstairs, while his female friend inquired through curiosity whose funeral it was. The name of Miss St. Yves was pronounced. At this name she turned, and gave a piercing shriek. St. Pouange then returned, while surprise and grief possessed his soul. The good old Gordon stood with streaming eyes. He for a moment ceased his lamentations, to acquaint the courier with all the circumstances of this melancholy catastrophe. He spoke with that authority which is the companion to sorrow and virtue. St. Pouange was not naturally wicked. The torrent of business and
