sat, her beautiful head leaning upon her hand,—now listening to the sweet tones floating on the wind, and now lost in a vague and pensive reverie.
"I know not," thought she, "why I should feel so sad—it seems the very wilfulness of a child; and yet what an unutterable depression is upon me at this moment! Why should there arise so vividly before me all that is most painful in my destiny—its uncertainty, its dependence, its emptiness? How unsatisfactory has my life been of late! I have been divided between petty mortifications, which I blushed to confess even to myself, and vain feverish amusements—for I cannot call them pleasures. I wish I could look beyond the smiling faces which meet me on every side, and see whether they conceal feelings like my own. Madame Mercœur is happier than I am, and has more causes for happiness. She has so much kindness in her power—is so beloved, and so secure of that love! Alas! I am so very, very grateful to her; and yet I cannot help asking, what is my gratitude to her, and of what consequence is my affection? Ah! how foolish—nay, worse, is this repining! It is as if I wished some misfortune to befall Henriette, merely to prove my attachment. Not so—but
