st be profound, and
whatever is cheerful must be shallow. They have put poor Philosophy into
deep mourning, and given her a coffin for a writing-desk, and a skull
for an inkstand."

"Oh," cried Vincent, "I remember some lines so applicable to your
remark, that I must forthwith interrupt you, in order to introduce them.
Madame de Stael said, in one of her works, that melancholy was a source
of perfection. Listen now to my author--

"'Une femme nous dit, et nous prouve en effet, Qu'avant quelques mille
ans l'homme sera parfait, Qu'il devra cet etat a la melancolie. On sait
que la tristesse annonce le genie; Nous avons deja fait des progres
etonnans, Que de tristes ecrits--que de tristes romans! Des plus noires
horreurs nous sommes idolatres, Et la melancolie a gagne nos theatres.'"

"What!" cried I, "are you so well acquainted with my favourite book?"

"Your's!" exclaimed Vincent. "Gods, what a sympathy; [La Gastronomie,
Poeme, par J. Berchoux.] it has long been my most familiar acquaintance;
but--

"'Tell us what hath chanced to-day, That Caesar looks so sad?'"

My eye followed Vincent's to ascertain the meaning of this question,
and rested upon Glanville, who had that moment entered the room. I might
have known that he was expected, by Lady Roseville's abstraction, the
restlessness with which she started at times from her seat, and as
instantly resumed it; and her fond expecting looks towards the door,
every time it shut or opened, which denoted so strongly the absent and
dreaming heart of the woman who loves.

Glanville seemed paler than usual, and perhaps even sadder; but he was
less distrait and abstracted: no sooner did he see, than he approached
me, and extended his hand with great cordiality. His hand, thought I,
and I could not bring myself to accept it; I merely addressed him in
the common-place salutation. He looked hard and inquisitively at me, and
then turned abruptly away. Lady Roseville had risen from her chair--her
eyes followed him. He had thrown himself on a settee near the window.
She went up to him, and sate herself by his side. I turned--my face
burnt--my heart beat--I was now next to Ellen Glanville; she was looking
down, apparently employed with some engravings, but I thought her hand
(that small, delicate, Titania hand,) trembled.

There was a pause. Vincent was talking with the other occupiers of the
table; a woman, at such times, is always the first to speak. "We have
not seen you, Mr. P