“It was thus,” said he, with a deep-drawn sigh; “It was thus, that during the last month of her unhappy life, my sister used to sit listening to the nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.”

“You had a sister?”

“You say right, that I had ; alas! I have one no longer. She sunk beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life.”

“What were those sorrows?”