The Literary echo, and Pawcatuck advertiser. [volume] (Westerly, R.I.) 1851-1854, 1853-10-20

vanities was about to be withdrawn from
her lips, the more intolerable her Thirst
became What would she not give tc
trace back the current of years that was
bearing her down, and seize her youth
again, that inestimable treasure, which
we never value sufficiently till lost for
ever? Vain wishes The fountain of
youth had run dry, and all the gold on
earth could never fill it again. Willing
or not, she must submit to natures law
she must grow old, and witness, how
ever painful, the falling leaves Of her
last bright days.
Such were the meditations of Madame
de Tourville, when a slight tap at the
door of her room abruptly reused her
from her rcveric
"Who is there :" asked she, with a
sudden stalt.
1t is |, Constance, your mother. |
am astonshed that have not seen you
this morning, and am come to see how
you are,"
Madame de Tourville drew back tn,
bolt and opened the door; the visitor
entered. She was what is called aCOnsan
that wearS peH. Her age appeared to
be somewhere from forty-fve to fifty.
Her face, Aanked with long curls of a
fine silver gray, bore indisputabe traces
Of no common beauty. She was tall,
and of a stoutness well proportioned to
her stature Her dishabille, perfect in
taste and of simplicity not devoid of
elegance, evinced in u high degree the
art, so difficult at her age, Of following
the fashion neither too much nor too
little. In word, her whole exterior
breathcd an air f distinction which
clearly proved that she had the tact
skilfully to steer between the two dan
gerous rocks of old age, negligence and
pretension. Her name was Madame
d'Arvigny.
On entering, she cast an observant
look around her daughters room, and
then upon its occupant, who, still alb
sorbed in her reflections, stood with her
eyes cast down.
"What ais you, Constance :" said
she, anxiously ; and why did | find YOU
locked in : Any one would think you
had been weeping "
" [ weep, mother? what nonsense
There is nothing the matter, assure
you"
" You give me that assurance in
tone that convinces me it is not true
Come, speak, my dear child; have |
ione an thing to forfeit your confidence
Or can it be myself who am the cause
the involuntary cause Of your trou les -
I" o, mother, don't think that :"
" Then lay bare your heart to me, or
shall think you are offended"
"Well, then-indeed, MOTHER" said
she, interrupting herself" the confess
ion you ask Of me is so strange that |
I'm afraid you will have laugh at my
expense"
Are not the troubles of daughter
acrcd in the eyes of a mothor -
" You wish it, mother; then listen"
And Madam de Tourville, without
oncealing anything, gave a recital of
he scene that had just passed, and de-
'icted the mental anguish caused her by
"a white hair. When she had DONE
Well, MOTHER" said she to Madame
PArvigny, who had heard her with the
most afectionate attention, care you
ot tempted to laugh at me a little :" I
" Far from it. Ipity you, my child
Or the period you are now passing is the
most painful trial in the life of woman '
ccustomed as you are to hattering at t
entions 1t is, my dear girl, the chap Il
er of disenchantment and sacrifices.
)thers beside you" added she, suppress d
~ a sigh, have known the anguish
nd bitter regret beculiar to it; and for n
unate it is when those regrets are caus- ?
d only by'wounded vanity, and the pain 5
ocs not affect the tenderest strings of {
he heart; but Woe to her who, clinging d
o these dreams, has not the courage to c
elnquish in due time the tastes and O
SEPARATIONS of youth, and who rctlins in v
Ter decline the feelings and illusions of t
Ter opening dawn In a word, my 5