“I hear carriage wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the _voiturier_ from Bruxelles,” said St. Amand, starting up; “it is his day,--his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle,” and he sank down listlessly on his seat. Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; they stopped at the lowly door; and, overcome, overjoyed, Lucille was clasped to the bosom of St. Amand. “Stay,” said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, and turned to Le Kain; “pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have brought with me one who, by God’s blessing, may yet restore you to sight.” “We must not be sanguine, my child,” said Le Kain; “anything is better than disappointment.” To close this part of my story, dear Gertrude, Le Kain examined St. Amand, and the result of the examination was a confident belief in the probability of a cure. St. Amand gladly consented to the experiment of an operation; it succeeded, the blind man saw! Oh, what were Lucille’s feelings, what her emotion, what her joy, when she found the object of her pilgrimage, of her prayers, fulfilled! That joy was so intense that in the eternal alternations of human life she might have foretold from its excess how bitter the sorrows fated to ensue. As soon as by degrees the patient’s new sense became reconciled to the light, his first, his only demand was for Lucille. “No, let me not see her alone; let me see her in the midst of you all, that I may convince you that the heart never is mistaken in its instincts.” With a fearful, a sinking presentiment, Lucille yielded to the request, to which the impetuous St. Amand would hear indeed no denial. The father, the mother, Julie, Lucille, Julie’s younger sisters, assembled in the little parlour; the door opened, and St. Amand stood hesitating on the threshold. One look around sufficed to him; his face brightened, he uttered a cry of joy. “Lucille! Lucille!” he exclaimed, “it is you, I know it, _you_ only!” He sprang forward _and fell at the feet of Julie_! Flushed, elated, triumphant, Julie bent upon him her sparkling eyes; _she_ did not undeceive him. “You are wrong, you mistake,” said Madame le Tisseur, in confusion; “that is her cousin Julie,--this is your Lucille.” St. Amand rose, turned, saw Lucille, and at that moment she wished herself in her grave. Surprise, mortification, disappointment, almost dismay, were depicted in his gaze. He had been haunting his prison-house with dreams, and now, set free, he felt how unlike they were to the truth. Too new to observation to read the woe, the despair, the lapse and shrinking of the whole frame, that his look occasioned Lucille, he yet felt, when the first shock of his surprise was over, that it was not thus he should thank her who had restored him to sight. He hastened to redeem his error--ah! how could it be redeemed?