lively conversation and laughter, the ladies seated
themselves in the light canoes, which danced like corks upon the water.
The gentlemen took the paddles, and, expert as Indians in the use of
them, swept out over the surface of the lake, which was now all aglow
with the bright crimson of sunset.

In the bow of one of the canoes sat the Arion of Tilly, Jean de La
Marche; a flute or two accompanied his violin, and a guitar tinkled
sweetly under the fingers of Heloise de Lotbiniere. They played an old
air, while Jean led the chorus in splendid voice:

"'Nous irons sur l'eau,
Nous y prom-promener,
Nous irons jouer dans l'isle.'"

The voices of all united in the song as the canoes swept away around a
little promontory, crowned with three pine-trees, which stood up in the
blaze of the setting sun like the three children in the fiery furnace,
or the sacred bush that burned and was not consumed.

Faint and fainter, the echoes repeated the receding harmony, until at
last they died away. A solemn silence succeeded. A languor like that of
the lotus-eaters crept over the face of nature and softened the heart to
unwonted tenderness. It was the hour of gentle thoughts, of low spoken
confidences, and love between young and sympathizing souls, who alone
with themselves and God confess their mutual love and invoke his
blessing upon it.

CHAPTER XXIX. FELICES TER ET AMPLIUS.

Amelie, by accident or by contrivance of her fair companions,--girls are
so wily and sympathetic with each other,--had been left seated by the
side of Philibert, on the twisted roots of a gigantic oak forming a rude
but simple chair fit to enthrone the king of the forest and his dryad
queen. No sound came to break the quiet of the evening hour save
the monotonous plaint of a whippoorwill in a distant brake, and the
ceaseless chirm of insects among the leafy boughs and down in the ferns
that clustered on the knolls round about.

Philibert let fall upon his knee the book which he had been reading. His
voice faltered, he could not continue without emotion the touching tale
of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini. Amelie's eyes were suffused with tears
of pity, for her heart had beat time to the music of Dante's immortal
verse as it dropped in measured cadence from the lips of Philibert.

She had read the pathetic story before, but never comprehended until
now the weakness which is the strength of love. Oh, blessed paradox of
a woman's