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The father would have remonstrated, but she rose and opened the door herself; the brother of St. Vincent was there. Lucille fell on her knees, and without raising her eyes, she said, in a tone of deep feeling:

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Sir, you saved my life, and I can thank you for that. But what can I say that will seem grateful enough for the soul preserved by your charity to this hour of (I trust) repentance?"

The affecting simplicity with which she uttered these words, moved the old priest to tears. The young man was also deeply affected and

answered, in a low voice,

"Your prayers will be more than enough reward.”

"How

Lucille did not answer, for true humility is silent ever; but her eyes filled with tears, and her look said plainly as words could say, may I dare to pray for any?"

"You wished to hear my story, sir," she said, after a short pause. "I will tell it to you as soon as I can."

Sobs choaked her utterance, and the young man spoke a few words earnestly to the nun.

"My dear child," said that gentle creature, "this good gentleman is seeking a poor deserted creature whom he wishes to reclaim. He hopes to find a clue to her in your story; but if it pains you, he will not hear it."

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No, sister Placida, I have no right to such indulgence. One moment, and he shall hear it all." She paused a moment, as if in silent prayer, and then began:

"My sin is so much greater than the sins of others, that when you hear my story, you will not wonder how I blush to tell it. Yes, I am bound to acknowledge that my sin is all my own. No insufficiency of education, no want of good example, caused my fall. My mother was poor, but respectable; a widow and a saint. Unfortunately for me, she had been the favourite servant of a great lady (also a widow, with an only son) who took a great fancy to me. I was her plaything and her toy; and when she offered to adopt me, for my sake, my mother thought she ought not to refuse. It had been better far for her, had she put me in my grave. I was taken from my poor home to become an inhabitant of the halls of luxury, and to receive an education which ill-suited me for the humble station in which I was born to move. But if that education worked me evil instead of good, surely the fault was in me who received, and not in her who gave it. I grew up, and mingled in society dangerous to all, but oh! how doubly so to her who is there by sufferance, and not by right. I was brought forward for my talents,

praised and petted for my beauty. I grew vain and trifling, but oh! I was not vicious then. Among the people whom I was in the daily habit of meeting, there were two who loved me, if the degrading passion which they felt can deserve the name. One of these two was the son of my benefactress. One day he told his love; but with this avowal came words that it seemed like a blight on my innocence only to have heard. I fled from him to the retirement of my own chamber; and bitter were the tears I there shed over the degradation I had met with. As soon as I could, I rose, and sought my mistress. I told her I wished to leave her service. She expressed her astonishment by her looks, and asked my reasons for such a resolution. I had none to give. How could I tell the widow of the sin of her only son? She deemed me ungrateful, as well she might, and left me in anger. I returned, without any further explanation, to my mother, and to her I confided my secret; she approved of my conduct, and advised me to persevere in a silence, which, if broken, could only bring unhappiness to her who had been so kind to me. I obeyed, the secret was buried in my own bosom; but from that time I knew happiness no more."

The young man here uttered an exclamation which made her pause; but after a moment's hesitation, she continued, though in a lower and humbler voice than ever:

"From what I have said, you may perhaps imagine me the victim of another's sin; but listen, and you will be convinced that by my own wayward folly I fell into vice. Had I withdrawn entirely from a society where I had discovered to my cost that I could only be an occasion of sin to others and of danger to myself, I might perhaps have been unhappy and discontented, but still I should have remained without sin; and alas! I have since found that innocence is never wholly unhappy, -guilt never completely blest. I returned to my mother's home. Its poverty disgusted, its loneliness wearied me. And yet worse, I cherished in my heart a passion which could lead to nothing but evil. Yes, that other who loved me, and whose love I returned with a feeling far more fervent and more pure, found me out in my poverty; and instead of adapting myself to my altered circumstances,-instead of assisting my mother in her household duties,—I spent the day in wandering with him, and in listening to his words of falsehood and of flattery. Vain fool that I was! In neglecting these humble duties, I was depriving myself of the protection of Heaven; and in listening to the flattery of one far above me in rank and station, I was rushing on the very danger I had fled from before. I fancied he would marry me, and

I rejoiced, for I loved him; but, alas! I exulted in the prospect of returning to the society to which I had been accustomed, and of restoring my mother to the comfortable independence she had possessed during her married life. My poor mother remonstrated with me in vain. I despised a warning which passion and vanity persuaded me was caused by ignorance of the character of him I loved. But Heaven was preparing for me the punishment it has threatened to all those who, exposing themselves to danger, shall perish in the danger.' Day after day we became poorer and poorer. I tried at last to assist my mother; but I was unused to labour of any kind, and I felt with bitterness that the nature of my education had totally unfitted me for the life I was now condemned to lead. At last came the moment we so long had feared. My mother from over-exertion became too feeble to labour any longer for our subsistence, and I knew not how to supply her place. He who loved me was in the country; but even if he had been at hand, there was an indescribable fear in my heart which made me shrink from all thoughts of demanding charity from him. In despair I resolved to return to my former mistress, and to implore the charity which a short time before I would have scorned to receive. She lived a long way off, and it was evening before I reached the house. Alas! my benefactress was dead, the house was shut up, and the servant, who was unknown to me, repulsed me rudely from the door. I turned away in utter despair. I must return to my mother, and tell her there was nothing left for her but to lie down and die. How I dreaded to look again upon that old beloved face, pale from illness, and pinched by want! I myself was almost starving; I had eaten little or nothing for the last three days, and I could scarcely crawl. I sat down to rest for a moment before I pursued my way. Carriages were rolling past, gay people were in the street, and many a light laugh and idle jest I heard, as I sat in utter helplessness close to some great man's gate. They were rich and happy; I was wretched and starving. The contrast moved me to bitter tears, and there was no one near to whisper of better things, and to remind me of Lazarus reposing on the bosom of Abraham. At this fatal moment I was accosted by some one. I looked up. It was he who had seemed to love me well, and whose addresses I had so imprudently encouraged. He joined me. I dreamed of no danger, when with him. I told him all. He soothed, he caressed me ;-but why need I say more? He was false, false to GOD and me; and I returned to my mother,-GOD alone knows how I found my way,blinded by weeping, bowed down by shame and guilt, the price of my

me;

own innocence in my hand. Providence had been at my home before there was light in the room; a supper was on the table, and my mother was seated by the fire with more happiness on her face than I had seen there for months. 'See, my child,' she said, 'how good is GOD to us; He did but try us, and now has hastened to relieve us. Your poor old mistress is dead, but she has not forgotten you in her will; her son has just been here, and provided us with this little supper.' Alas! alas! and I had been offending this good GOD, even when He was loading us with favours. I stood before my virtuous mother a degraded creature; infamous even in her eyes, who loved me better than anything else in the world. I dared not tell her of my sin. I feared lest she should curse me for the shame I had brought upon her; despair seized my heart, I flung the gold upon the ground, and rushed from the house. My mother did not follow; she had fainted—so I guessed from what I afterwards heard. He had fancied that a quarrel would ensue, and he was still lingering near the house. I remained with him for months; my whole employment, one vain effort to forget. I did not communicate with my mother. I dreaded her just indignation, and even feared the recollection of that venerable face. At last I grew accustomed to my situation; I became hardened in guilt. I loved him no longer; how could I love a man so steeped in iniquity as I discovered him to be—a sensualist, an Atheist, a scoffer of all I had been taught to deem holy? Yet he was generous and indulgent, and so I remained with him, despising and despised, sharing in his midnight orgies, and mingling with creatures as depraved as myself. His great delight was to undo the religious impressions of my early education, and he succeeded to his heart's content. I gloried in professing his Atheistical opinions,-delighted in his scoffing wit, and joined with him, on all occasions, in decrying the holy religion the dictates of which I was unwilling to follow. One day I saw a great crowd round a church of Our Lady; from mere curiosity I also entered. Murmurs of pity and horror met my ear; from an impulse for which I cannot account, I pushed my way up the aisle. In the midst of the crowd which opened to let me pass, was the body of a poor wretch just dragged from the Seine. She was quite dead, and my blood froze in my veins as I looked. I could not mistake that face, it was one of my companions of the night before, from whom I had parted when she was riotous in drunken joy. Without doubt, in a fit of despair she had put an end to her existence. He to whom the secrets of all hearts are revealed, alone can tell in what state that spirit went to judgment; but the Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire,'

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seemed to ring in my ears; and in horror and despair I fled from the church. It seemed as if for the first time I understood the terrible reality of my guilt, the frightful condemnation beneath which I lived. I flung off my rings, my jewels, every thing that by its costliness looked like the wages of sin. I absolutely loathed myself. I could not weep or pray;-I did not dare to address the GOD whom I had so deeply offended. I only said to myself, I will sin no more;' and then instinctively I turned towards my mother's house, certain of being there received with pity, if not with kindness. It was evening when I opened the door of my old happy home. I stood for a moment on the threshold, for I felt oppressed by an unusual sense of stillness in the chamber. My mother was not in her accustomed chair, but a nun was kneeling by the bed. I approached, and drew the curtains. My God! she was dead, and I had no mother! I did not start or scream; I felt the just vengeance of Heaven was on my head, so I sat down on the floor, and watched in silence through the livelong night. The next morning they came to bury her. Some one asked his neighbour of what the widow died, and he was answered, of a broken heart.' I knew it was so before, yet the answer turned my heart into stone. No one asked me any questions, no one seemed to remember or to heed me. I followed them to the church,-I saw them heap the green sods above her,—I watched the last mourner depart,—and then I fell upon the grave in an agony of grief. I remained there all the day; but at last hunger assailed me, and an instinct of self-preservation compelled me to return to the city. I ventured to implore an alms, and was answered by an insult. I felt then bitterly and truly that there is no refuge for the sinner in this cold world, and I fled to the church where I had been the day before; there was a light still burning before the altar of the Mother of GOD. For a long time I lay prostrate there, and in floods of tears besought her protection. I arose comforted, and resolved to perish rather than add another stain to the many by which my soul was already darkened. I passed that night on my mother's grave. I was exhausted by mental and bodily suffering, and, strange as was my resting place, I slept long and dreamlessly. When I awoke, the sun was bright in the heavens; the air was full of balm, the wild flowers were fragrant with dew. It seemed as if Heaven was smiling its forgiveness upon me, and something like hope grew into my soul. I gathered the wild violets, and made them into nosegays. I pleased myself with the thoughts that an honest and ostensible employment would obtain me charity, and guard me from insult. I wandered through the city, but

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