At length, she roused herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which, though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect her, if she delayed to visit them.
Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsook her, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade, which evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw across the room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering that apartment, where every thing spoke of her father.

There was an arm chair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, for she had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose so distinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before her.
But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though she could not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her emotions.

She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it; there was a reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as it had been left by her father.

It was some moments before she recovered courage enough to examine it; and, when she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected, that St.Aubert, on the evening before his departure from the chateau, had read to her some passages from this his favourite author.

The circumstance now affected her extremely; she looked at the page, wept, and looked again.