Le Gant heard my intentions with the utmost amaze••lent. "How, monsieur.'" he exclaimed, with a look of horrour, such as he might have assumed had I told him I meant to cut my throat,—" Monsieur is not serious?" "Indeed 1 am, Le Gant." "My God! will Monsieur immure himself in this place here?" "Undoubtedly." "Mais—immure one's self?—How droll!" "And why so, Le Gant?" "Because, monsieur, I have heard that the devil turns bermit when he's old; but I never heard of any one's becoming so—whether devil or man—while there was a single black hair on his head." "And so, you have no taste for the sweets of the country, LeGant?" "Yes, monsieur; but I love the sweets of the city much better." "And do you never tire of them?" "Eh!—metis , No, monsieur—I change too soon lor that. I take them all in turn; as soon as one begins to lose its flavour, I throw it aside and taste another; so J. am never cloyed. And—with Monsieur's permission—if Monsieur would adopt the same plan, he would never lose his appetite, and be obliged to come to this horrid place to diet upon herbs. But," added the fellow, with a shrug of the shoulders, and a very peculiar smile,—" Monsieur knows best!—and we must allowt hat certain sweets are much fresher in the country." "What do you mean?" "0!—mais !—Monsieur has taste—c'est un Jiomme « Ixmnes fortunes; Mademoiselle is certainly a charming girl—-faite dpeindre." "Silence, scoundrel!" "Well! just as Monsieur pleases!—But"—(lowering his voice)—" if Monsieur desires, I will manage it all without any trouble to him!" "Silence, I say—this instant!" "Eh! mon Dieu!—metis diable!—Monsieur must be obeyed—mais"— And Le Gant—having listened in silence to my directions as to the articles of apparel I should ueed, and received my orders to return for me in a week—set off to rest himself and horse at the nearest inn, wearing, as he rode, an expression of countenance that our old acquaintance Mr. Snubbs would have considered the perfection of his art.—Had I suddenly become pious, I believe Le Gant would have done nothing but fast and pray from morning to night. Before closing the chapter, it will be proper to make the reader better acquainted with the family in which I was now temporarily settled. The good man himself was upwards of sixty years old. and somewhat under the middle size, though rather full in person. His head might have served a painter for the model of an apostle's. The high, benevolent forehead, which Time had left unwrinkled, the quiet blue eye, and the mouth ever placid, save when a smile of amenity curled it for a moment, harmonized well—or, to use a technical word, which those flies that light on every thing to spoil it (I mean the reviewers) have converted into a mere cant phrase, were in excellent keeping with his bald crown and its venerable circlet of silver hairs. Nor did the manners of the old man disagree with his appearance; for, except when unusually excited (—as, for instance, when he rushed from the house to meet me—), he was rather grave in deportment—though without austereness. —He was the son of a rich and respectable banker, who, being involved in the failure of another, destroyed himself in a fit of despair, leaving this, his only child, almost destitute of the means of existence. The young man, who was then on his travels, was thus obliged to accept the first employment that offered. After suffering many reverses during the whole summer of his life, the greater "rt of which period was passed in England, he at length settled himself in this spot. Here he had now lived for twenty-one years—having earned, by his own unassisted industry, sufficient wealth to enable him to enjoy at his case all the comforts, and many of the luxuries of life, and happy in the possession of an amiable wife, and a daughter, who was in her parent's eyes all that a parent's heart could desire. ;• • « The wife was at least twenty years younger than herhusj Kind. She was a woman of considerable natural talents, though evidently very little improved by education, and was possessed of a more than ordinary share'of beauty. There was, however, nothing remarkable in this latter qualit)'. It was of the usual character to be found in her countrywomen—set off by that peculiar vivacity which never leaves a Frenchwoman, however old, till the day of her death, and which I have noticed flourishes never with greater luxuriance, than at that period of life, when an englishwoman generally settles down in an armed-chair by the fire-side, the fat, dozing, good-natured grandmama. Nannette struck me as uncommonly handsome—uncommonly, even in a country where I never saw a female that I thought decidedly ugly,;—except, perhaps, it was an old or a blind one. A figure short, but formed in the finest mould, and possessing, to an exquisite degree, that flexibility which we look for in vain in the stiffly-laced belles of fashionable life,—a head turned with a beauty I never saw equalled—(but in her, of whom it must be my melancholy task to speak in the Fifth Book), and set upon a swan-like neck with a grace, of which I can give the Reader no better description than by referring him to some fine statue he may have seen of female loveliness, or bidding him take the pencil of his imagination, and portray what he would consider the perfection of gracefulness in that part, which gives more effect than any other to the female form,—a forehead moderately high, and even as the polished marble,—eyes whose dark beauty was ever changeable, at one moment sparkling with gaiety, and the next softened to that melancholy expression which is so fascinating, because it always excites in us a wish to console the party thus apparently distressed in mind (—and pity is a dangerous feeling towards women—),—a nose whose only fault was its being a little too large,—a mouth, though not small, well enough formed for the mere matter of lips, and beautified with a child-like innocence of expression, somewhat singular in a girl of twenty,—and a chin turned in a manner that corresponded well with the rare symmetry of the head and neck—were certainly points which would have been considered admirable in any country. Yet these were not all; for Nannette's understanding was a fine one, and, though it had not received much regular culture, the care of her father had improved it to a state that would have done credit to many women of a higher sphere of life. And then her manners were so attractive —half artless, half coquettish ; nature, or what she wished to do, ever seeming to contend with her knowledge of decorum, or what she had been taught to do. And lastly, she loved her parents so truly! "If this picture be accurate," you will say, "Nannette wanted but little of being a perfect beauty." I cannot answer—I may have exaggerated; but, if so, I am excusable, as you will promptly allow ere you have read much further. Such were the individuals composing the little family m which I was now an inmate. And, as such, could they be otherwise than happy? They were happy. When I entered their dwellmg, it was the house of gladness; but with me, though innocent, came the accursed blight, and 1 H •U the abode of wretchedness so pitiable! better it been desolate, the rank grass choking up its doorV ay, and the owls hooting in its chambers! CHAPTER II. Now o'er the one half world Macbeth. The last day of the week I was to spend with my kind entertainers was drawing to its close, when a stranger of some importance arrived at the cottage. He was unaccompanied by friend or servant; but, to judge from the soiled state of the little one-horse carriage in which he came, and the jaded appearance of the animal that dragged it, he had journeyed from some distance ; and a large trunk, attached to the vehicle, seemed to announce its owner's intention of making no flying visit.-.— In answer to my host's salutation and look of inquiry, he extended, with great awkwardness of manner, a sealed letter; which the old man opened, and read aloud, as follows :— "Dear friend,— "With this you will welcome no less a person "than my son Charles. You will find him, I trust, every "thing that a parent could wish his son to appear, or '' that you can desire to meet in the future husband of my "little favourite.— I will write none of the thousand "things I have to tell you, as I wish not to deprive myself •' of the pleasure of relating them with my own lips, •' when we meet two weeks from this day. "Wholly yours, "dear friend, *' Charles Le Gendre," |