Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this
romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she
often looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that
filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once,
and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile,
clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the
tender enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became
almost painful; his features assumed a serious air, and he could not
forbear secretly sighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to
these moments, as to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless
regret. But let me not misuse them by useless anticipation; let me
hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me
than life.'
To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he
bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet
pathos.
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