bed, the conversation invariably turned on Louis. In cruel fancy
they deepened the real sorrow of separation by casting imaginary
misfortunes on the track of the absent boy. One would sigh with the
ominous PERHAPS.

"Poor Louis is now hungry!"

"Perhaps he is now lying sick and footsore on the side of some highway,
without a friend, without money."

"Perhaps he has fallen in with robbers and is stripped of the few
articles of dress he took with him."

"Perhaps he is now sorry for leaving us," sighed the tender-hearted
Aloysia, "and would give the world to kiss again his poor sick mamma!"

But futile tears flowed with each surmise. No welcome messenger
returned to bring tidings of the missing youth.

'Tis thus we love virtue; we sigh over departed worth when its
brilliancy has faded from our sight.





Chapter VIII.
Madeleine's Happy Death.