THE MONK. 93 



glow of health passed from her cheeks, and the sparkling glance no 

 longer darted from her eyes : that elasticity of step with which she 

 used to walk so gaily along, with Arthur by her side, was gone. 

 Her smile was of sadness, and the suppressed sigh would often es- 

 cape unconsciously, betraying how painful was the struggle in her 

 bosom. Oh ! 'tis a sad and fearful thing to watch the fading flower 

 — to see it, in life's first spring, droop day by day — to see its vivid 

 colours disappear, and all that once was fair and pure and beautiful 

 to look upon, become a sickly and withered plant. What dew can 

 again revive the sapless heart ? What breeze can again refresh the 

 blighted afiections ? Colonel Hamilton saw all this in his child ; it 

 inflicted a deeper pang than any he had yet experienced. Change 

 of air and scene were recommended ; and he decided to pass into 

 Italy, and spend the winter in a softer climate. It was for this pur- 

 pose that he set out, rather late in the season, from Geneva. Mary 

 having expressed a wish to cross the St. Bernard, he took that pass. 

 They arrived at the Hospice, and were detained by the causes be- 

 fore stated." 



The monk here paused, as the evening was far advanced ; and 

 the next day he continued his story. "I must now," he said, "give 

 a short history of the early life of the Countess de Vegnet, who, as 

 mentioned already, arrived here on the same night with the English 

 travellers, and so unexpectedly encountered her early friend Mary 

 Hamilton. The countess was of Spanish birth, and the proud blood 

 that throbbed in her veins claimed descent from a long line of an- 

 cestry. Her person was tall and commanding : dignity and love 

 were in her every gesture. Her character was marked by strong 

 passions, and her sentiments and ideas were of that vivid, almost 

 morbid, kind, which too frequently entail misery and disappointment 

 on their possessor. She formed a sincere attachment to Mary when 

 they were together, though the two were very dissimilar in tastes 

 and pursuits. Paulina had none of the exuberant spirits and warm 

 enthusiasm of her light-hearted friend; but the springs of her 

 feeling were perhaps deeper, and certainly stronger, from not find- 

 ing a fit channel in which to flow. Whilst Mary had a smile, 

 or a tear, ever ready to sympathize with each one's joys or sorrows, 

 the emotions of Paulina were rarely developed, but by the tale of 

 some wild or romantic distress. After leaving Geneva, she went to 

 reside in one of those beautiful valleys that branch from the Black 

 Forest, and down which the winding and impetuous Meurg takes its 

 course. On its wild banks, and amid the surrounding picturesque 

 scenery, several of her succeeding years were passed. And whilst 



