"Come in," he said, and Lucille entered.

He started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she gently repulsed him.

She took a seat opposite to him, and looking down, thus addressed him:-- "My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St.Amand, I have something on my mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended with Lucille: it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply." Colouring, and suspecting something of the truth, St.Amand would have broken in upon her here; but she with a gentle impatience motioned him to be silent, and continued:-- "You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you that you would cease to do so could you see how undeserving I was of your attachment.

I did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured that such would be the case, that your love for me necessarily rested on your affliction.
But for all that I never at least had a dream or a desire but for your happiness; and God knows, that if again, by walking barefooted, not to Cologne, but to Rome--to the end of the world--I could save you from a much less misfortune than that of blindness, I would cheerfully do it; yes, even though I might foretell all the while that, on my return, you would speak to me coldly, think of me lightly, and that the penalty to me would--would be--what it has been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural tears from her eyes.

St.Amand, struck to the heart, covered his face with his hands, without the courage to interrupt her.