This page needs to be proofread.
CHAP. IX.
The sprightly vigour of my youth is fled;
Lonely and sick, on death is all my thought;
Oh! spare, Persephone, this guiltless head;
Love, too much love, is all thy suppliant's fault!
The sadness which marked the brow of Madeline could not escape the notice of Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter; but they were both too delicate to mention it, yet left no effort untried to dissipate it. She had expressed a wish of visiting the Alps: and, in hopes of amusing her, Madame Chatteneuf made her and her daughter take an excursion thither the evening following the
