Gerval, for the remaining period. His master preferred cards and the bottle to work, and finding Henri honest and attentive, was anxious to retain him in his situation. He had a daughter, named Annette, a quick, lively, and fascinating girl, who seemed rather disposed to coquet with Henri, and was somewhat frequently in the workshop with him. Gerval observed, and by no means discouraged, this, thinking that, even after all, his assistant would become neither a bad partner for Annette nor himself; and that their intercourse, at all events, would keep away Louis, a former workman, who had affected a great regard for his daughter, but possessed very little inclination to use the saw or the plane. All this attention was very delightful to Henri, particularly as it proceeded from so interesting a creature as his present companion. Are, then, Verny and the sorrowful Louise quite forgotten? It must be confessed, that they almost escaped his memory, when thus employed with Annette; but, to do him justice, in the solitude of his chamber he experienced feelings almost akin to remorse; often in his dreams did he behold Louise, ever tender, ever affectionate, as in their infancy; this vision was recalled when he awoke, and he arose, vowing that she should never have a rival in his heart: but Henri was young, Louise two hundred miles off, and Annette only two steps.

Gerval, to keep away all aspirants, gave it out that they were betrothed, and especially informed Louis, the dismissed swain, of this agreement, who, in consequence thereof, immediately left Lyons. Henri's time, meanwhile, was passing away; he had received some very tender letters from Louise, and had written to her, but less frequently than he would have done if Annette had not occupied his leisure hours. Having, however, received no intelligence from Verny for more than three months, he began to be disquieted, and determined to leave Gerval, notwithstanding all Annette's attractions. To be sure, he had found her very pretty and agreeable—he had romped and flirted with her—but had never, for a moment, thought of marrying her, and had, strictly speaking, been faithful to Louise. Judge then of his surprise, when, one night, Gerval returned home half-drunk, and asked them, if they were not beginning to think of the wedding. Annette threw herself into her father's arms; Henri, pale as death, hid his face with his hands, and knew not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the sight of this confusion, burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter; "You put me in mind," said he, at last, "of one of those ninnies of lovers on the stage, who throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses, as if they were idols. Come, my lad, embrace your betrothed—exchange rings—and long live joy, for it costs nothing." The words "exchange rings" restored Henri to his senses, for he thought he beheld his beloved Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, "Dear Henri, what will become of me without you?" And this ring, too, which was asked from him, was the self-same one that he had received from her!—He immediately addressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, and, having thanked him, told him that he should never forget his friendship and his kind intentions, that he should always love Annette as a sister, but that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own native place. He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed her the ring, about which she had teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man's reproaches on her. These reproaches all fell on him; he bore them, however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was "a good sort of fellow," was, in the end, affected by it. "Go, then, and marry your betrothed," said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; "since it is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better. I must say, I shall regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval and his daughter."

Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. During the four or five first days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise—"Annette will console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me? Oh, yes!—she is so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity, when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I was placed." Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily, and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise, and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering. Oh! could he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that way! He tried to do so, but his efforts were fruitless: the first Sunday arrived, and he was still two days' journey from Verny. In the evening he found himself in a large town, called Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless endeavours, and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every thing seemed prepared for the festival—the street was neat and clean—the fountains adorned with branches, and decorated with large nosegays, tied together with beautiful ribands—fir-trees marked the dwellings of the young females—all had flowers around them, but he remarked, that one had only white ones on it, fastened with a crape riband—the street was deserted. Before he could reach the inn, which was at the other end of the town, he had to pass by the church and the burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and in the latter there was an open grave. This melancholy sight rendered it evident, that some one was dead; that her loss had suspended the public joy; and the bouquet, encircled with crape, had been planted before the "house of mourning." He entered the church-yard—groups of females were walking there. They were conversing in a low tone, and Henri discovered that the deceased was young and beautiful; and that she had been the victim of a misplaced affection; he could not restrain his tears, for he thought how near, perhaps, he had been occasioning the death of his Louise. "But," said one of the females, "why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why did she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?"—"She always told me," replied Isabelle, (the person addressed, and who was in deeper mourning than the others,) "that she could only love once, and that she had no longer a heart to give."—"Well, then," said another, "was she sure that her lover was faithless?"—"Quite sure. She had long feared that he was; she saw it in his letters, for when a woman like Marie loves, the heart divines every thing; still, however, she flattered herself with the fond hope that he would return, and that her forgiveness of his neglect would revive in him all his former affection. Three months ago this hope was destroyed, she heard that he was—married. Since that time she has only languished; she wished to live for the sake of her parents, but her grief has proved the most powerful. He quitted me in the month of May," said she to me; "in the month of May I shall quit life." "That time is come, and Marie is no more."—"Tell us her whole history," exclaimed two or three of the listeners, at once. Isabelle consented; they were crowding round her, and Henri was approaching nearer, and redoubling his attention, when the funeral bell