uld apply, and in whose skill
she could place confidence. I at once recommended Dr. H. M. White (since
dead), well knowing not only his great success, but equally cognizant of
that universal charity that rendered him afterwards no less beloved than
illustrious. Without a moment's hesitation, the Doctor seized his hat,
and hastened along with us, to the wretched abode of the sick, and, as
it afterwards proved, the palsied father. The disease was pronounced
apoplexy, and recovery doubtful. Still, there was hope. Whilst we were
seated around the bedside, a tall, emaciated, feeble, but very handsome
young man entered, and staggered to a seat. He was coarsely and meanly
clad; but there was something about him that not only betokened the
gentleman, but the well-bred and accomplished scholar. As he seated
himself, he exchanged a glance with Lucile, and in that silent look I
read the future history of both their lives. On lifting my eyes toward
hers, the pallor fled for an instant from her cheek, and a traitor blush
flashed its crimson confession across her features.

The patient was copiously bled from an artery in the temple, and
gradually recovered his consciousness, but on attempting to speak we
ascertained that partial paralysis had resulted from the fit.

As I rose, with the Doctor, to leave, Lucile beckoned me to remain, and
approaching me more closely, whispered in French, "Stay, and I will tell
you all." The main points of her story, though deeply interesting to me,
at that time, were so greatly eclipsed by subsequent events, that they
are scarcely worthy of narration. Indeed, I shall not attempt to detail
them here fully, but will content myself with stating, in few words,
only such events as bear directly upon the fortunes of John Pollexfen.

As intimated above, Lucile was an only child. She was born in Dauphiny,
a province of France, and immigrated to America during the disastrous
year 1848. Her father was exiled, and his estates seized by the officers
of the government, on account of his political tenets. The family
embarked at Marseilles, with just sufficient ready money to pay their
passage to New York, and support them for a few months after their
arrival. It soon became apparent that want, and perhaps starvation, were
in store, unless some means of obtaining a livelihood could be devised.
The sole expedient was music, of which M. Marmont was a proficient, and
to this resource he at once applied himself most in