But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!
Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently
the voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them
forth from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who
was now risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by
sleep as herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in
which they had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat
breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them
good-morrow.
'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he
met them, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air,
that one breathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would
surely be this air.'
La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a
Frenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and
Mademoiselle have honoured it with your presence.
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