Monsieur Amand paused: he seemed much oppressed, and at length, bursting into tears, laid down the instrument and walked abruptly away to the further end of the terrace. Adeline, without seeming to observe his agitation, arose and leaned upon the wall, below which a group of fishermen were busily employed in drawing a net. In a few moments he returned with a composed and softened countenance. Forgive this abrupt conduct, said he; I know not how to apologize for it but by owning its cause. When I tell you, Madame, that my tears flow to the memory of a lady who strongly resembled you, and who is lost to me for ever, you will know how to pity me.--His voice faltered, and he paused. Adeline was silent. The lute he resumed, was her favourite instrument, and when you touched it with such a melancholy expression, I saw her very image before me. But, alas! why do I distress you with a knowledge of my sorrows! she is gone, and never to return! And you, Adeline,--you----He checked his speech; and Adeline turning on him a look of mournful regard, observed a wildness in his eyes which alarmed her. These recollections are too painful, said she in a gentle voice: let us return to the house; M. La Luc is probably come home. O no! replied M. Amand;--No--this breeze refreshes me. How often at this hour have I talked with _her_, as I now talk with you!--such were the soft tones of her voice--such the ineffable expression of her countenance.--Adeline interrupted him. Let me beg of you to consider your health--this dewy air cannot be good for invalids. He stood with his hands clasped, and seemed not to hear her. She took up the lute to go, and passed her fingers lightly over the chords. The sounds recalled his scattered senses: he raised his eyes, and fixed them in long unsettled gaze upon hers. Must I leave you here? said she smiling, and standing in an attitude to depart--I entreat you to play again the air I heard just now, said M. Amand in a hurried voice.--Certainly; and she immediately began to play. He leaned against a palm tree in an attitude of deep attention, and as the sounds languished on the air, his features gradually lost their wild expression, and he melted into tears. He continued to weep silently till the song concluded, and it was some time before he recovered voice enough to say, Adeline, I cannot thank you for this goodness: my mind has recovered its bias; you have soothed a broken heart. Increase the kindness you have shown me, by promising never to mention what you have witnessed this evening, and I will endeavour never again to wound your sensibility by a similar offence.--Adeline gave the required promise; and M. Amand, pressing her hand, with a melancholy smile hurried from the garden, and she saw him no more that night.