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perished from the remembrance of the living, and in the next
generation my place was a blank.”

“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter
who never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”
“You, Lucie? It is out of the consolation and restoration you have
brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us
and the moon on this last night.- What did I say just now?” “She
knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.” “So! But on other
moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence have touched
me in a different way-have affected me with something as like a
sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
foundations could-I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell,
and leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have
seen her image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except
that I never held her in my arms; it stood between the little grated
window and the door. But, you understand that that was not the
child I am speaking of?” “The figure was not; the-the-image; the
fancy?” “No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed
sense of sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind
pursued, was another and more real child. Of her outward
appearance I know no more than that she was like her mother. The
other had that likeness too-as you have-but was not the same. Can
you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think? I doubt you must have been
a solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed distinctions.”

His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from
running cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.

“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her
married life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father.
My picture was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was
active, cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.” “I
was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
that was I.” “And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of
Beauvais, “and they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity
me. When they passed a prison of the State, they kept far from its
frowning walls, and looked up at its bars, and spoke in whispers.
She could never deliver me; I imagined that she always brought me
back after showing me such things. But then, blessed with the relief
of tears, I fell upon my knees, and blessed her.” “I am that child, I
hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless me as
fervently to-morrow?” “Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the
reason that I have to-night for loving you better than words can
tell, and thanking God for my great happiness. My thoughts, when
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