intercourse with a highly intellectual and beautiful woman, and, as he
had chosen for his motto, _What has been done may still be done_, he
did not despair of success. In this village lived three sisters, all
beautiful and all accomplished. Their names were Mary, Adelaide, and
Madeleine. I am far enough past the age of enthusiasm, but never can I
forget the beauty of those young girls. Mary was the youngest, and a
fairer-haired, more laughing damsel never danced upon a green.
Adelaide, who was a few years older, was dark haired and pensive; but
of the three, Madeleine, the eldest, possessed the most fire, spirit,
cultivation, and intellectuality. Their father was a man of taste and
education, and, being somewhat above vulgar prejudices, permitted the
visits of the hero of my story. Still he did not altogether encourage
the affection which he found springing up between Mary and the poet.
When, however, he found that her affections were engaged, he did not
withhold his consent from her marriage, and the recluse bore to his
solitary mansion the young bride of his affections. O sir, the house
assumed a new appearance within and without. Roses bloomed in the
garden, jessamines peeped through its lattices, and the fields about
it smiled with the effects of careful cultivation. Lights were seen in
the little parlor in the evening, and many a time would the passenger
pause by the garden gate to listen to strains of the sweetest music,
breathed by choral voices from the cottage. If the mysterious student
and his wife were neglected by their neighbors, what cared they? Their
endearing and mutual affection made their home a little paradise. But
death came to Eden. Mary fell suddenly sick, and, after a few hours'
illness, died in the arms of her husband and her sister Madeleine.
This was the student's second heavy affliction.

"Days, months, rolled on, and the only solace of the bereaved was to
sit with the sisters of the deceased, and talk of the lost one. To