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126 THE BROKEN HEART. 
The person who told me her story had seen her 
at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of 
far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful 
than to meet it in such a scene — to find it wan¬ 
dering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
around is gay — to see it dressed out in trappings 
of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as 
if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into 
a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After stroll¬ 
ing through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd, 
with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself 
down on the steps of the orchestra, and looking 
about for some time with a vacant air, that 
showed her insensibility to the gairish scene, she 
began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to 
warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite 
voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so 
touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretch¬ 
edness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
around her, and melted every one into tears. 
The story of one so true and tender could not 
but excite great interest in a country so remarka¬ 
ble for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart 
of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, 
and thought that one so true to the dead could 
not but prove affectionate to the living. She de-' 
dined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrev- 
i ocably engrossed by the memory of her former 
lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He so¬ 
licited, not her tenderness, but her esteem. He 
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