s consolations in my heart. I shall leave you, my child, still
in his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be still in
his presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing
new, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and
nothing terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God.
Had my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the course
of nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train of
infirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and
then, at last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you now
shed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering,
and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of
the comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued with
speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in
replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he
had not spoken in vain.

When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me
return,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I
had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before
I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others,
of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise,
then, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.'

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears,
that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;
and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he
should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.

He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would
break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance
gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to
your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet,
which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor.
You will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the
next board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the
distance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will
perceive a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;--the way to
open it is this:--Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board
will then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the