"Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receive such a lodger." "Will you receive me?" said St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of your family I thought." "Of us? Monsieur is too flattering, but we have scarcely a room good enough for you." "What difference between one room and another can there be to me? That is the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds most kindly." The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath the same roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that _he_ wanted so constant an attendance? was she not happy that she was ever of use? St. Amand was passionately fond of music: he played himself with a skill that was only surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice; and was not Lucille happy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as at Malines were never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face to whose melancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was she not happy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille?" Did not her own name uttered by that voice, seem to her even sweeter than the music? Was she not happy when they walked out in the still evenings of summer, and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one to whom she was so necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and was there not something like worship in the gratitude she felt to him, for raising her humble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself loved? St. Amand's parents were French; they had resided in the neighborhood of Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which he had succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story.