he looked at her with a countenance full of anguish.—"I must fly (said he), or I shall no longer have any command over myself." The breeze that blew in at the window had wafted aside the hair of Madeline from her forehead; de Sevignie pressed his lips against it for a moment; and, dropping on his knees, "bless, heaven (he cried) bless with the choicest of thy gifts, the loveliest of thy works!"—then rising precipitately, he once more rushed out of the house.
Madeline, more dejected than ever, returned to her chamber; nor could any effort she made for the purpose so far restore her composure as to enable her to join her father (whose walk had been purposely lengthened on her account) at supper: she excused herself by pleading a head-ache. Clermont sighed, as he thought that a heart-ache was what she should have said. The departure of de Sevignie Clermont trusted would check the passion of Madeline; and that, like an untoward blossom of the spring,
