a gentle breeze sprang up, and laughing groups assembled on piazzas, or in front of open doors; strolled leisurely among flowerbeds, and gayly promenaded on the walks. The hum of business was suspended, but the hum of pleasure filled the air instead; for the light-hearted people of the place were almost all without their doors. As the sun-light faded out, the moon rose on the scene; the shadows which had pointed toward the east were now turned westward; and the sheen lay on the quaint old town like a silvery mantle. Sweet music floated on the wind, and perfumes from a hundred gardens, exhaled by the sun, now settled toward the earth, and mingled with the coolness of the closing night.
Marie stood at the window until the gathering darkness made her figure but a shadow. Her mother had left the room, and she was alone with her thoughts. A knock at the front door startled her from reverie; and had there been an observer present, even the moonlight would have revealed the flush that overspread her face on suddenly recalling the promised visit of Le Vert. It must be, she thought, Napoleon's knock; and its alarum had scattered from her mind a crowd of images, among which the figure of her future husband had filled a place. She reproached herself with this; but it augured ill for time to come, that it was only sense of duty that prompted the censure.
She had scarcely time to gain a seat, and still the fluttering of her heart, when the door was opened, and, instead of Napoleon, Mr. Beman was shown in. A sigh of relief, still less promising for future happiness, escaped her, as she rose and welcomed the lawyer.
"I fear I am liable to the charge of intrusion," said the latter, courteously, as he took the seat offered him; "but as my time in Kaskaskia is somewhat limited, and I could not think of going away without seeing my old friend's daughter, I determined to take the risk."
"We should be more unsociable than grief ought to make us," said Marie, warmly, "if we were not glad to see you; and I am sure my mother will say the same."
"She is well, I hope?" he said, in a tone of interest.
"She has not recovered from the shock of my father's death," Marie answered, sadly, "and I am fearful———"
