"To think that from Erin and thee I must part-- It may be for years, and it may be for ever----" Thus far had Rose sung, when deep sobs startled her. They came from Adeline. She had been leaning back in her grandmamma's fauteuil, pale and quiet, but full of inward agitation. The song seemed singularly applicable to her, and she had listened to its words as they went on with an oppressed heart. Singularly applicable! She was leaving her country, her home, and her dear parents, it might be for years, or it might be for ever. In these moments of sadness, a straw will unhinge the outward composure. Adeline's sobs burst forth with violence, and it was entirely beyond her power to control them. The whole room looked up in amazement, and Rose brought her song to a sudden standstill. Mr. St. John, who was near the piano, strode forward impulsively towards Adeline; but arrested his steps half way, and strode as impulsively back again. Anxious inquiries were pressed upon Adeline, and her mother laid down her embroidery and went to her. Adeline seemed to recover herself by magic, so far as outward calmness went. She excused herself in few words: it was a fit of low spirits; she had not felt well all day, and Rose's song had affected her; the feeling had passed now. Mr. St. John whispered to Rose to begin another song, and she did so. He then wished the party good night, and left. By-and-by, Adeline, pleading fatigue, said she would go to bed. "Do so, dear child," acquiesced her mother; "you don't seem very well." "Good night, dear, dear mamma," she said, clinging round her mother's neck, while the rebellious tears again streamed from her eyes. She would have given half the anticipated happiness of her future life for her mother to have blessed her, but she did not dare to ask it. She approached her father last, hesitatingly; kissed him--a most unusual thing, for he was not a man to encourage these familiarities, even from his daughter--and left the room struggling convulsively to suppress her sobs. After sitting in her chamber a few minutes, to recover serenity, she rang for Louise. Up came that demoiselle, in open surprise that her young lady should have retired so early. Adeline said she had a headache, let her take off her dress, and then dismissed her. Adeline bolted the door and began to look around her. Shock the first: her wardrobe was locked and the key gone. The dress and bonnet she meant to wear were in it; so she had to ring again. "I want the key of the wardrobe," she said, when Louise entered. "It is locked." Louise felt in her pocket, brought forth the key, and threw the doors back on their hinges. "What should she give to mademoiselle?" This was difficult to answer. At any other time Adeline would have ordered her to leave the wardrobe open, and go. But her self-consciousness and dread of discovery caused her to hesitate then. "I want--a--pocket-handkerchief," stammered Adeline.