possible, detail those unhappy
circumstances which so soon deprived you of her protecting love. You
will no longer be surprised that I have repressed your natural curiosity
on this subject; for it must excite many painful feelings, which I would
still spare you, had not a recent discovery rendered the disclosure
unavoidable."

"The subject agitates you, my dear aunt," said Lucie, observing her
changing complexion with anxiety; "you are indeed too ill, this evening,
to make so great an exertion, and I had far rather wait till another
day, when you will probably be better able to bear it."

"No, I am well now," she replied; "and will not keep you any longer in
suspense." She then resumed,

"Your mother, Lucie, had the innocence and purity of an angel; she was
gay, beautiful, and accomplished,--the idol of her friends, the
admiration of all who saw her. That picture, which you so often gaze on
with delight, is but a faint resemblance of what she was. The lineaments
are indeed true to nature, but no artist could catch the ever varying
expression, or imbody that unrivalled grace, which threw a charm around
her, more captivating even than her faultless beauty. She was just four
years older than myself, but this difference of age did not prevent the
closest union of sentiment and feeling between us; and, as she was
almost my only companion, I early renounced my childish amusements for
the more mature employments, which engaged her attention. We lived much
in retirement; my father was attached to literary pursuits, and devoted
himself to our education; a task which he shared with my eldest sister,
who was many years our senior, and affectionately supplied the place of
our mother, who died a few months after my birth.

"Your mother, Lucie, was scarcely sixteen when she first saw Mons. de
Courcy. Chance introduced him to our acquaintance, as he was travelling
through the province where we then resided; her loveliness attracted his
admiration, and he soon avowed a deeper and more impassioned sentiment.
Till then she had never dreamed of love; it was reserved for him to
awaken its first emotions in a heart susceptible of the most generous
and devoted constancy, the most fervent and confiding tenderness,
exalted by a delicacy and refinement, which could only emanate from a
mind as virtuous and noble as her own.

"De Courcy had already passed the season of early youth, and his
disposition and feelings were, in many respects, ex