And where was la petite Madelaine?--What became of her, and what was she doing that livelong day? Never was she so much wanted at St Hilaire--to console--to support--to occupy the "fair forsaken;" and yet she came not. "What insensibility--what ingratitude! at such a time!"--exclaimed the parents of the lovely desolate--so interesting in her becoming character of a lone bird "reft of its mutual heart," so amiable in her attempted exculpation of the neglectful Madelaine! "She does not mean to be unkind--to be cruel--as her conduct _seems_"--_sweetly_ interposed the meek apologist.--"But she is thoughtless--_insouciante_--and you know, chère Maman! I always told you la petite Madelaine has no sensibility--Ah Ciel!"----That mine were less acute!--was, of course, the implied sense of that concluding apostrophe--and every one will feel the eloquence of the appeal, so infinitely more affecting than the full-length sentence would have been. If vagueness is one great source of the sublime--it is also a grand secret in the arcana of sensibility. But we may remember that poor little Madelaine had slipt away to her own home the preceding evening, pleading a headache as the excuse for her evasion. Perhaps the same cause--(was it headache?) holds her still captive in her little chamber, the topmost chamber in the western pepper-box turret, four of which flank the four corners of the old Chateau du Résnél. Certain it is, from that same lofty lodging Madelaine has not stirred the livelong day--scarcely from that same station;-- "There at her chamber window high, The lonely maiden sits-- Its casement fronts the western sky, And balmy air admits. "And while her thoughts have wandered far From all she hears and sees, She gazes on the evening star, That twinkles through the trees.-- "Is it to watch the setting sun, She does that seat prefer? Alas! the maiden thinks of one, Who _little_ thinks of her."