The readers of _Blackwood_ can hardly have forgotten a charming French tale, of which an abridged translation appeared, under the title of "_An Unpublished French Novel_," in the number of the Magazine for December 1847. In the brief notice prefixed to it, we mentioned the existence of a companion story by the same authoress, which had obtained wider circulation than its fellow, through arbitrary transfer to the pages of a French periodical; and which, on that account, although of more convenient length than the _Histoire Hollandaise_, we abstained from reproducing. Having thus drawn attention to one of the most pleasing tales we in any language are acquainted with, we fully expected speedily to meet with it in an English version. Not having done so, our vivid recollection of the great merits of "_Le Médecin du Village_" now induces us to revoke our first decision--the more readily that we have repeatedly been solicited to give the English public an opportunity of appreciating a tale unprocurable in the form in which it was originally printed, and which few persons in this country are likely to have read in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. The exquisite delineation of the erring, but meekly penitent Annunciata, and of the long-suffering and enthusiastically pious Christine, may well inspire a wish to become acquainted with other productions of the same delicate and graceful pen. The simple story of the _Village Doctor_ will not disappoint expectation. We ourselves, deeply sensible of the fascinations of the Countess d'Arbouville's style, consider it her happiest effort; and although we once hinted a doubt of the probability of its crowning incident, we forget to play the critic when under the influence of her touching pathos and delightful diction. In our present capacity of translators we feel but too strongly the impossibility of rendering the artless elegance of her style, which flows on, smooth, fresh, and sparkling, like a summer streamlet over golden sands. And, with all her apparent simplicity, Madame d'Arbouville is a cunning artist, playing with skilful hand upon the chords of the heart, which vibrate at her lightest touch. The effects she produces are the more striking because seemingly unsought. But her merits will be better exhibited by this second specimen of her writings than by any praise we could lavish; and we therefore proceed, without further preamble, to the narrative of Eva Meredith's sorrows, as given by her humble friend, THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. "What is that?" exclaimed several persons assembled in the dining-room of the château of Burcy.