“On the following day, my father sought De Courcy at the monastery, hoping to draw him back to the world by the touching claims of parental love.  But he had already left it, never to return; and the superior had sworn to conceal his new abode from every human being.  Before leaving the convent, on the night of your mother’s death, he confirmed her bequest, which had already given you to my eldest sister, then a rigid Catholic.  But my father soon after became a convert to the opinions of the Hugonots, to which we also inclined; and my sister’s marriage with M. Rossville confirmed her in those sentiments.  She thought proper to educate you in a faith which she had adopted from deliberate conviction; and, as your father had renounced his claims, she of course felt responsible only to her own conscience.  Every effort to find him, indeed, continued unavailing; years passed away, and by all who had known him he was numbered as with the dead.

“But your father still lived, Lucie, and the recollection of his injured wife forever haunted him; her misery, her untimely death, all weighed heavily on his conscience, and he sought to expiate his crime by a life of austerity, and the most constant and painful acts of self-denial and devotion.  Yet the severest penance which he inflicted on himself was to renounce his child, to burst the ties of natural affection, that no earthly claims might interfere with those holy duties to which he had consecrated his future life.”

“Just heavens!” said Lucie, with emotion; “could such a sacrifice be exacted? dearest aunt, tell me if he yet lives, if I am right”—­

“He does live,” interrupted Madame de la Tour; “he received permission to quit his monastery only to fulfil a more rigid vow, which bound him to a life of unremitting hardship; and, after a severe illness, that for several weeks deprived him of reason, he at length reached this new world, where for nearly twenty years”—­

“Father Gilbert!” exclaimed Lucie, starting from her seat in powerful agitation.

“Yes,” said a deep, solemn voice; and the dark form of the priest, who had entered unnoticed, stood beside her; “my child, behold your father!”

“My father!” repeated Lucie, as she rushed into his extended arms, and sunk weeping upon his bosom.

CHAPTER XXI.

    Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time. 
    And rule the spacious world from clime to clime: 
    Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
    Trace every wave, and culture every shore.

        CAMPBELL.