urning her embrace mournfully,
"you will wander away from the church,--our holy church. It would not
have been thus, had we remained in sunny Picardy. _Eh! oublier je ne
puis_."

"What is it, _chere mere_", said Adele, "that you cannot forget? There
is something I have long wished to know. What was there, before you
came here to live? Why do you sometimes sit and look so thoughtful, so
sad and wishful? Tell me;--tell me, that I may comfort you".

"I will tell you all, Adele, yes,--all. It is time for you to know,
but--not to-night--not to-night".

"To-morrow then, _ma mere_?"

"Yes. Yes--to-morrow".

CHAPTER X.

PICARDY.

"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but, weep sore for him
that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native
country". The prophet, who wrote these words, well knew the exile's
grief. He was himself an exile. He thought of Jerusalem, the city of
his home, his love, and his heart was near to breaking. He hung his
harp upon the willow; he sat down by the streams of Babylon and wept.

The terrible malady of homesickness,--it has eaten out the vigor and
beauty of many a life. The soul, alien to all around, forlorn amid the
most enchanting scenes, filled with ceaseless longing for a renewal of
past delights, can never find a remedy, until it is transplanted back
to its native clime.

Nor was the prophet singular in his experience of the woes of exile.
We have heard of the lofty-spirited Dante, wandering from city to
city, carrying with him, in banishment, irrepressible and unsatisfied
yearnings for his beloved Florence; we have seen the Greek Islander,
borne a captive from home, sighing, in vain, for the dash and roar of
his familiar seas; we have seen the Switzer, transplanted to milder
climes and more radiant sides, yet longing for the stern mountain
forms, the breezes and echoes of his native land. Ah! who does not
remember, with a shudder, the despairing thoughts, choking tears, and
days of silent misery that clouded his own boyhood, and perhaps even
some days of his early manhood?

_Oublier je ne puis_. Poor lady! she had been homesick twenty years.

On the afternoon following the conversation recorded in the last
chapter, Mrs. Dubois was ready to unfold to Adele the story of her
past life. They were sitting in the parlor. The golden glory of the
September sun gave an intense hue to the crimson furniture, lighted up
the face of the Madonna with a new rad