n, she wept over
it a last farewel, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of
melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than she
had experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was more
tranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert's death.

But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her
grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living
attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father's
remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections
which we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of
regard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should
find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed
unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with many
tears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.

She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,
through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the
deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was
only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at
her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered
on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed
the day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town on the
skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.

Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in
the neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of former
times began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that
awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through
her tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the
rich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last she
saw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired.
Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, would
present itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon her
heart. 'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there the
wood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed this
road together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of that
mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade
me remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shal