Amelie had risen from pleasant dreams. The tender flush of
yesterday's walk on the banks of the Lairet lingered on her cheek
all night long, like the rosy tint of a midsummer's sunset. The
loving words of Pierre floated through her memory like a strain of
divine music, with the sweet accompaniment of her own modest
confessions of love, which she had so frankly expressed.
Amelie's chamber was vocal with gaiety and laughter; for with her
to-day were the chosen friends and lifelong companions who had ever
shared her love and confidence.
These were, Hortense Beauharnais, happy also in her recent betrothal
to Jumonville de Villiers; Heloise de Lotbiniere, so tenderly
attached to Amelie, and whom of all her friends Amelie wanted most
to call by the name of sister; Agathe, the fair daughter of La Corne
St. Luc, so like her father in looks and spirit; and Amelie's
cousin, Marguerite de Repentigny, the reflection of herself in
feature and manners.
There was rich material in that chamber for the conversation of such
a group of happy girls.
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