"Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how much
more beautiful thou art! There is no music in her voice."

The evening before Lucille departed she sat up late with St. Amand and
her mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the wide
sterility of the world they laid out the garden of household love, and
filled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and the frost
that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand sought his
chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, she fell
down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness of her
heart in a prayer for his safety and the fulfilment of her timid hope.

At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the short
journey from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town, instead of
seeking her aunt, she rested at an _auberge_ in the suburbs, and
confiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, she set
out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovely
superstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its weakness,
her affection made it even sacred; and well may we believe that the Eye
which reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that fanaticism
whose only infirmity was love.

So fearful was she lest, by rendering the task too easy, she might impair
the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food. Sometimes,
in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the roadside, and under
the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to its sweet and bitter
thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her enterprise urged her on, and
faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she started up and continued her
way. At length she reached the ancient city, where a holier age has