s so much of lustre in the complexion, and so
much of light and intelligence in the eye, that the sense of beauty
predominated over all. You could not have wished her more cheerful than
she was. Her face was a melody which you cannot quarrel with for being
sad--which you could not desire to be otherwise than sad--whose very
charm it is that it has made the tone of sorrow ineffably sweet.

Much I mused and conjectured what her history might be, and frequently I
felt tempted to address myself in conversation to her; but still there
was a tranquillity and repose in those long eyelashes which I feared to
disturb. It was probable that she preferred her own reflections,
melancholy as they might be, to any intercourse with others, and out of
respect to this wish I remained silent. Not so, however, my
fellow-traveller of her own sex, who, far from practising this
forbearance, felt that she acted the kind and social part by engaging
her in conversation. And so perhaps she did. For certainly, after some
time, the beautiful and pensive girl became communicative, and I
overheard the brief history of her sufferings, which I had felt so
curious to know. It was indeed brief--it is not a three-volumed novel
that one overhears in a stage-coach--but it had the charm of truth to
recommend it. I had been lately reading Eugene Sue's romance, _The
Mysteries of Paris_, and it gave an additional interest to remark, that
the simple tale I was listening to from the lips of the living sufferer
bore a resemblance to one of its most striking episodes.

The shades of evening were closing round us, and the rest of the
passengers seemed to be preparing themselves for slumber, as, leaning
forward on my leathern supporter, I listened to the low sweet voice of
the young stranger.

"You are surprised," she said in answer to some remark made by her
companion, "that one of our sex, so young and of so delicate health,
should travel alone in the diligence; but I have no relative in Paris,
and no friend on whose protection I could make a claim. I have lived
there alone, or in something worse than solitude."

Her companion, with a woman's quickness of eye, glanced at the rich
toilette of the speaker. It was mourning, but mourning of the most
costly description.

"You think," she continued, replying to this glance, "that one whose
toilette is costly ought not to be without friends; but mine has been
for some time a singular condition. Wealth and a complete