ran, as usual, to open the door to him.

"Oh! you have been so long away; but I already know many of the songs:
they say so much that I always wanted to say!"

Vaudemont smiled, but languidly.

"How strange it is," said Fanny, musingly, "that there should be so much
in a piece of paper! for, after all," pointing to the open page of her
book, "this is but a piece of paper--only there is life in it!"

"Ay," said Vaudemont, gloomily, and far from seizing the subtle
delicacy of Fanny's thought--her mind dwelling upon Poetry, and his upon
Law,--"ay, and do you know that upon a mere scrap of paper, if I could
but find it, may depend my whole fortune, my whole happiness, all that I
care for in life?"

"Upon a scrap of paper? Oh! how I wish I could find it! Ah! you look as
if you thought I should never be wise enough for that!"

Vaudemont, not listening to her, uttered a deep sigh. Fanny approached
him timidly.

"Do not sigh, brother,--I can't bear to hear you sigh. You are changed.
Have you, too, not been happy?"

"Happy, Fanny! yes, lately very happy--too happy!"

"Happy, have you? and I--" the girl stopped short--her tone had been
that of sadness and reproach, and she stopped--why, she knew not, but
she felt her heart sink within her. Fanny suffered him to pass her, and
he went straight to his room. Her eyes followed him wistfully: it was
not his habit to leave her thus abruptly. The family meal of the day
was over; and it was an hour before Vaudemont descended to the parlour.
Fanny had put aside the songs; she had no heart to recommence those
gentle studies that had been so sweet,--they had drawn no pleasure, no
praise from him. She was seated idly and listlessly beside the silent
old man, who every day grew more and more silent still. She turned
her head as Vaudemont entered, and her pretty lip pouted as that of
a neglected child. But he did not heed it, and the pout vanished, and
tears rushed to her eyes.

Vaudemont was changed. His countenance was thoughtful and overcast. His
manner abstracted. He addressed a few words to Simon, and then, seating
himself by the window, leant his cheek on his hand, and was soon lost in
reverie. Fanny, finding that he did not speak, and after stealing many a
long and earnest glance at his motionless attitude and gloomy brow, rose
gently, and gliding to him with her light step, said, in a trembling
voice,--

"Are you in pain, brother?"

"No, pretty one!"

"Then why won't yo