great object was annihilated; thoughts,
which were before strangers to her heart,
crowded upon her. The little store she
had destined for home, was mostly expended
in charity; but some little also in ornaments.
She became less reserved, and more lively.
The countenance, which had been so unmoved
at any casual or impertinent compliment, now
sometimes deigned a smile, which was,
however, often followed by a contemptuous curl
of the lip: whether in derision of herself or
of the complimenter was doubtful.

Charles Downham was one of the few who
had obtruded no attention on this girl, beyond
the passing glance which a pretty woman
claims. Julie respected his forbearance at
first, and ended at last by falling deeply and
desperately in love with him. She had
many opportunities of seeing that he was
the admiration of those with whom he
associated, and often noticed the blush of
pleasure which the sight of him would raise in
some fair cheek. Hers were not the only eyes
which followed him as if there were a fascination
in his presence. For a long time he was
ignorant of her feelings towards him; until one
evening the truth flashed upon him, as he raised
his head from some pictures at which he had
been looking, and accidentally caught her
eyes fixed upon him. She, of whom he had
seldom thought before, now seemed to be
clothed with double beauty. In a word,
before the evening was over, he was as
desperately in love as Julie herself.

His books grew distasteful, and his mind
seemed perfectly incapable of entertaining
any other image. At length he gave up the
contest. He sought and found several
opportunities of speaking with her; nor was it long
before he obtained from her the confession of
her love for him.

The Basque, like the Spanish women,
know no bounds in their attachments; their
love, like their hate, is always in the extreme.
Julie's heart and soul, from this hour, were
given to her lover; she braved the wrath and
scorn of her family for him; dishonour for
her seemed to have no terrors weighed against
a moment's discontent or sorrow for him. She
could not restrain her joy at the sight of
him, nor conceal her imprudent attachment
from other eyes. It was not long before she
was ordered, with every mark of contempt and
scorn, to quit the house.

Her lover, in no position to assist her,
now felt the selfishness and
thoughtlessness of his conduct,. To see her suffer
was more than he could bear. To counsel
her to return home to her family, and
trust to her mother's affection, was his first
impulse; but Julie dreaded as much to
quit him, as to face their upbraidings.
At this crisis he received a letter,
offering him an advantageous appointment in
London.

Here was a release from all their difficulties.
He explained to her that he had now an
opportunity of extrication; but that he would
be obliged to quit her. She implored him
to permit her to accompany him to England;
she would follow him in any capacity; she
would be no expense to him, if she might
only be always near to watch and comfort
him. He was overcome by her passionate
appeal; he really loved her deeply; he assured
her that his grief was equal to her own
in having to leave her; he explained that
it would be ruin to his prospects in England,
if it were known that she had accompanied
him; he pointed out that her present love
ought to yield to their future fortune; he
assured her that her unborn child and
herself, as long he lived, should share his means
and affections; and, finally, seeing her still
unconvinced and overwhelmed with grief,
promised to return on the first opportunity.

But what was she to do in the mean
time? The lovers were relieved from this
difficulty too, by her mother coming to
see her at Pau. Ignorant of the disgrace
that had befallen her, she went to Madame
Laville's; hoping to see her as beautiful and as
innocent as when she had quitted her home
twelve months before. Here she learnt the
tidings of her dishonour; she flew to the
house where Julie was staying; and
found them all too true. The sudden
presence of her mother before the guilty girl,
was too much for her weak condition; she
fainted; and then a revulsion of feeling took
place in the mother's heart. She raised the
girl from the ground, called her every
endearing name, assured her of her forgiveness
and love, and besought her to return home
immediately. Julie at first refused, in her
dread of seeing home again; but, when Charles
Downham joined his persuasions to those of
her mother and convinced her how impossible
it was for her to accompany him to
England, she acquiesced. He insisted on her
receiving a part of the money which had been
forwarded to him for his journey; as she
refused, he placed it in her name at a banker's,
and told her that it was destined for his and
her child, and she had now no right to
decline it.

Shortly after this she returned with her
mother, and again beheld her native valley.
What a change in herself since she had last
seen its unaltered face! She had left it in
her beauty and innocence, with a noble
object; she returned to it guilty, miserable,
broken-hearted,— no longer a support to those
she loved, but a dishonour and a burden.

Such thoughts as these brought on a serious
illness, and she gave birth to a boy,
almost as beautiful as herself. Her whole
existence was now centred in the child. She
would watch it for hours and hours, without
stirring. She shunned the society of her
former companions, and seldom, if ever,
showed herself out of doors. No one knew
her history since her departure from the
village, but the priest, her family, and myself,