entering the parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune
appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of
his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that
occupied his mind. It was in manners, more than in words, that he
appeared to sympathize with his friends: he spoke little on the
subject of their grief; but the minute attention he gave them, and
the modulated voice, and softened look that accompanied it, came from
his heart, and spoke to theirs.

At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow,
and now resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse
between them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words
were not wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that
speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the
heart: but she assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized
with him, praised the virtues of his late wife, and then offered what
she considered to be consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she
spoke; St. Aubert was tranquil, listened to what she said in silence,
and then turned the discourse upon another subject.

At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.
'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give
way to grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of
course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit
the spot which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of
his wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it
gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the
tender enchantment that bound him to home.