At length, St.Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on.
The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness, which is not unpleasing.

St.Aubert interrupted it by observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance.
He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!' St.Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes.

Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight.
'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St.Aubert, 'and I thought, and felt exactly as he does.

The world was opening upon me then, now--it is closing.' 'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--for MY sake.' 'Ah, my Emily!' replied St.Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well--I hope it is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world.

It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine.