led her friends with apprehensions. The physician ordered that she
should be kept perfectly quiet; or that, if she evinced any agitation,
she should be gently lulled, like a child, by some favourite tune.

She remained in this state for hours, hardly seeming to breathe, and
apparently sinking into the sleep of death. Her chamber was profoundly
still. The attendants moved about it with noiseless tread; every thing
was communicated by signs and whispers. Her lover sat by her side,
watching her with painful anxiety, and fearing that every breath which
stole from her pale lips would be the last.

At length she heaved a deep sigh; and, from some convulsive motions,
appeared to be troubled in her sleep. Her agitation increased,
accompanied by an indistinct moaning. One of her companions,
remembering the physician's instructions, endeavoured to lull her by
singing, in a low voice, a tender little air, which was a particular
favourite of Annette's. Probably it had some connexion in her mind
with her own story; for every fond girl has some ditty of the kind,
linked in her thoughts with sweet and sad remembrances.

As she sang, the agitation of Annette subsided. A streak of faint
colour came into her cheeks; her eyelids became swoln with rising
tears, which trembled there for a moment, and then, stealing forth,
coursed down her pallid cheek. When the song was ended, she opened her
eyes and looked about her, as one awakening in a strange place.

"Oh, Eugene! Eugene!" said she, "it seems as if I have had a long and
dismal dream; what has happened, and what has been the matter with
me?"

The questions were embarrassing; and before they could be answered,
the physician, who was in the next room, entered. She took him by the
hand, looked up in his face, and made the same inquiry. He endeavoured
to put her off with some evasive answer;--"No, no!" cried she, "I know
I have been ill, and I have been dreaming strangely. I thought Eugene
had left us--and that he had gone to sea--and that--and that he was
drowned!--But he _has_ been to sea!" added she, earnestly, as
recollection kept flashing upon her, "and he has been wrecked--and we
were all so wretched--and he came home again one bright
morning--and--Oh!" said she, pressing her hand against her forehead,
with a sickly smile, "I see how it is; all has not been right here: I
begin to recollect--but it is all past now--Eugene is here! and his
mother is happy--and we shall never--never