We have heard of the lofty-spirited Dante, wandering from city to
city, carrying with him, in banishment, irrepressible and unsatisfied
yearnings for his beloved Florence; we have seen the Greek Islander,
borne a captive from home, sighing, in vain, for the dash and roar of
his familiar seas; we have seen the Switzer, transplanted to milder
climes and more radiant sides, yet longing for the stern mountain
forms, the breezes and echoes of his native land. Ah! who does not
remember, with a shudder, the despairing thoughts, choking tears, and
days of silent misery that clouded his own boyhood, and perhaps even
some days of his early manhood?
_Oublier je ne puis_. Poor lady! she had been homesick twenty years.
On the afternoon following the conversation recorded in the last
chapter, Mrs. Dubois was ready to unfold to Adele the story of her
past life. They were sitting in the parlor. The golden glory of the
September sun gave an intense hue to the crimson furniture, lighted up
the face of the Madonna with a new radiance, and touched the ivory
keys of the piano with a fresh polish. Adele's eyes were fixed with
eager expectation upon her mother.
"You know, _ma chere_", Mrs. Dubois began, "we once lived in France.
But you cannot know, I trust you never may, what it cost us to leave
our beautiful Picardy,--what we have suffered in remaining here,
exiled in this rude country. Yet then it seemed our best course.
Indeed, we thought there was no other path for us so good as this.
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