“A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do,” said St. Amand, bitterly.
“But listen, listen, dear Eugene,” said Lucille, weeping.
The sound of her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas, he knew not how much he had to be grateful for! He held out his arms to her. “Forgive me,” said he. “Those who can see Nature know not how terrible it is to be alone.”
“But my mother will not leave you.”
“She is not you!”
“And Julie,” said Lucille, hesitatingly.
“What is Julie to me?”
“Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in her presence.”
“And why, Lucille?”
“Why! She is more beautiful than a dream.”