stock by turning trader with it? My wife is inclined to answer for you, that you would be honest."

Oh, monsieur-oh! try me!" was all Antoine could reply; his heart was too full for wordy acknowledgments. Louise dropped a piece of money into his hand, and as he looked at her with beaming eyes, every feature of her face became engraven on his mind. Gratitude, when it is a real emotion, and not a passing impulse, has a deathless memory.

The curiosity of the youthful pair had been somewhat excited by the manner of Antoine Mercel, and a bearing evidently superior to his station. Inquiries were made concerning him, and they learned that, though only a poor la bourer on the estate, he had enjoyed the then unusual advantages of learning to read and write from a brother, whose extraordinary talents had gained for him admission into a neighbouring convent. But for the occasional relief the lowly

born monk contrived to throw in Antoine's way, his family must have absolutely starved; as it was, his children knew well the taste of boiled weeds and rank grass!

And so the Feudal Lord, in the death-pang of expiring feudalism, granted to his Serf the permission of fishing for food within those certain limits of a certain river, which, with its wealth and its waters, became his where it traversed the lands he also held. Yes, the free water that leaps down from the ancient hills, and will not

be stayed as it hurries on to the ocean! Not on earth met that lord and that serf again; but once did the citizen Préseant meet citizen Mercel, and then the debt of gratitude was cancelled.

On rolled the seasons-again and again smiling summer chased winter away; but not mine the pen with power to tell of the mortal changes that came upon the earth, in those years when light was struggling through the darkness-the darkness of woe and blood and crime. If ye seek to dwell upon them, open the books which tell of the time with a patient believing reverence for truth, however strangely disguised, or ye will learn no lesson there that can be worth the remembering.

The reign of anarchy was at its height; old and young, the good and the fair, the noblest blood and the most plebeian, alike had fed the greedy guillotine. The most honest, harmless man, whom France had known for ages as a king, had been dragged to the reeking scaffold, like a loathed unpitied criminal, and the discrowned widow" had within those few days imitated his fate. It was October, 1793. Hitherto François and Louise Préseant had escaped the destiny which had swept their nearest and dearest friends from their side. The circumstance of François belonging to what was called an upstart family, had probably shielded him for long; and they had endeavoured to live without ostentation, without a party; but the very no-party moderatists grew of necessity into a band. Louise became the friend of Madame Roland, and, before they themselves knew the

fact, they were enrolled among the Girondinsthat party whose sad fate it was to survive so long, suffering the sad sight of human crime and human agonies-that party, of whom Carlyle truly and pithily says, "They wanted a Republic of the Virtues, wherein themselves should be head; and they could only get a Republic of the Strengths, wherein others than they were head."

"François and Louise were arrested-dragged with small ceremony through Paris streets. A child-their only child-with a hand clasped by each, sat between them. In death they would not be parted. Suddenly there was a halt; a horseman was forcing his way to the side of the cart, a person evidently of power and authority, whose dress betokened the republican officer. Antoine Mercel, from some little distance, had recognized his benefactors. It will be remembered that on the day of the fete champetre the tion, had copied in their attire the dresses of ladies, for want of some more stirring occupa some old pictures. The rich brown curls of the comtesse had fallen then in clustering tresses, robbed of the accustomed disguising powder; and now the absence of a tire-woman, and the agony and dismay of some preceding days, had produced the same effect. The picture, which gratitude had imprinted on the heart of Mercel, True, the expression of peace and happiness was not disturbed by adventitious changes, had given place to one of woe unutterable; ba the pair were recognized in an instant.

Mercel; and the people, believing he was the Speech with the prisoners!" exclaimed bearer of some message from the authorities. made way for him. Some formal words he aldressed to them loud enough for the bystanders to hear, then lowering his tones, he said, using the " madame," which had been so long prohibited, "If my life can save you it shall be paid. Be quiet-be silent-be obedient-but look for a release. The children you fed plead for you that yours shall not be an orphan." The horseman withdrew; and the prisoners were for a time lost in bewilderment, pondering with a hopeful wonder who their new friend could be. But when at night he stood at their prison door with an order for their release, he was vaguely remembered; not without strange emotions at the recollection of events which bad made them now the recipients of mercy. How he had risen to power and place they knew must be but one of the common histories of the time. The excitement of the first recognition had passed away on his part; he addressed the with respect, but by the simple title of citizens, He conducted them outside the walls; then, before calling them a coach, he turned to the comtesse, and, putting a purse into her hand, said, "In my sore need you once gave me a piece of money-in your need you must take the means of at least a few weeks' existence; for, let me tell you, your property is all for feited. If you will accept advice into the bar gain," he added, with a forced laugh, "and moreover hint not that I gave it, fly from

France; I might not be able to release you a second time. Farewell, I have paid a debt of long standing. I never show mercy to the aristocrats--that they well know-but a soldier of the republic must be just and honest."

François and Louise passed many years in England, subsisting by the employment of those talents which had adorned their early days of splendour-their few, few years of prosperity. Those whose lives have once been perilled as theirs had been, acquire cheerfulness even under the loss of fortune. After all, the affections of the heart and the cultivation of the mind are the riches of life. At the Restoration they recovered a considerable portion of their property, and among it the estate which had been the scene of the eventful fete champêtre.

She leaves her friends of youth, her childhood's home;

And thoughts are crowding on her of the past,
The present, and the future-and she weeps!
A door now opens, and a gentle hand

Is laid upon her own she turns, and meets
Her mother's tearful gaze and sadden'd smile.
Her father, too, is there, and murmurs low
A blessing on his child. Her sisters cling
Around her. Now she feels what grief it is
To part from all beloved, and can but weep!
Draw we a veil around them; let the Night
Her sable curtains close upon the scene.
Would you know more, go seek yon convent walls,
And they will tell, with Ave and with prayer,
Of her short, holy life, and happy death!

ELLEN WOOD.

A STORY IN VERSE.

THE EVE OF THE NOVICIATE.

At a low window, opening to the ground,
Round which the woodbine gracefully entwines,
And roses, in their rich profusion, lent
A perfume as in that of eastern lands,
A maiden sits; sad, pensive, and alone.
Her eye is raised to yonder pure bright vault,
And the tears hang upon the jetty lash
Which veils their deep magnificence.
The sun has set, yet in the distant west
The purple clouds in golden lustre trace
The shining path which he so lately trod-
The birds their evening song from hill and vale
Are grateful sending forth from every spray;
And the sweet silv'ry sound of distant bells
Proclaims the hour of vesper worship near:
And still she stands! her cheeks so sad, so pale,
That you might fancy her from marble cut-
Life-like and lovely, and yet wanting breath.
Did she not love the beautiful-not feel
The silent eloquence of all around ?
Judge her not harshly; for her heart is raised
To Him whose eye can pierce the shades of night.
A few short months before, and who so glad,
So blest as she-whose voice so lightly toned-
Whose laugh so musical and gay as hers?
She loved, and was beloved; but ruthless Death,
Who heeds not young or old, had taken him—
Had struck him down when life was in its bloom.
The eve was calm as now; he at her side
Still lingered-loth to leave, as was his wont-
And whispered words of love to willing ears;
When the bolt fell which changed her joyous
dreams.

One moment, in his pride of youth he stood,
Her hand in his: the next, upon the ground
Lay stretched, devoid of life! the spirit fled!
And he was gone! her beautiful! her own!
Long, long she hovered on the brink of death,
And with returning consciousness there came
The bitter feeling of departed joy!

She could not be as she was wont to be:
All mirth seem'd mockery of her grief.
And her young sisters look upon her now

As an etherial being-one whose days

Are number'd-who, ere long, will join the dead-
The living dead! for she had now resolved
To seek the cloister's shade-to be a Nun!
It is the Eve of her Noviciate.

And then it seemed to beckon me. With eager arms outstretched, 'I come,' I cried, oh blessed saint, to thee!' But vainly was the effort made; My limbs refused their wonted aid.

"Ah, sister dear, how true it is

That all earth's joys are incomplete! Sleeping or waking, still our bliss

Too oft flies from us; to my feet How vainly did I seek to rise,

As, thro' sad tears, my yearning sight Traced to its pure and kindred skies

That happy spirit's upward flight!
I woke sad had that waking been
If wanting, love, thy smiles serene !

"But some have said that dreams are sent
As faithful warnings from above;
And, Lucy, might not this be meant
By the All-wise, in perfect love,
To show how little space there lies

Between me and an opening tomb?

Look from their bright and distant home, And waiting, watch to welcome me To their celestial company?"

"Brother beloved! say not so,

Or this full heart indeed must break! Ah, Henry, thou canst little know How much to-night, for thy dear sake, Hath Lucy fought with feeling! nay, In pity ask no question! deep In this poor heart must ever stay

The painful secret; hearts can keep Such treasures well, as misers hold With envious grasp their useless gold.

"My more than brother!-precious friend— Guide, counsellor! would that this heart Had been content on thee to spend

All its fond store of love-thou art
So worthy of its homage!" now

Her pent-up feelings found relief
In streaming tears; her burning brow
Her brother softly kissed; her grief
With kindness strove to soothe, and then
In mildest accents spoke again.

"Lucy! for thy dear sake I seek

All human means which may prolong
This frail existence. Words were weak
To tell how yearningly I long
For my dear native isle. If aught

Could win my spirit back to earth,
It were her well-known scenes, so fraught
With memories of childhood's mirth.
I see them in my sleep-their streams
Sing murmuring songs to charm my dreams.

""Tis true our friends are more than kind,
And in their stately dwelling, too,
All is rich comfort; but the mind
To Memory is ever true.
Say, sister, wilt thou turn with me

Unto our much-loved Erin's shore?
Living, oh how I long to be,

Among her breezy hills once more! Dying, 't would be my wish to lie Wrapt by her turf, beneath her sky!"

"Brother, look forth! ah, not awake!
Sleep'st thou amidst such loveliness?
The waters of this Pontoon' Lake
Seem boundless as an ocean: yes,
This is true Irish beauty! Now,

With Erin's mountains all around,
Her wild, moist breeze upon my brow,

What home-spells o'er my heart are wound! From the calm Vale of Lune,' how strange To these love-scenes appears the change!"

So spake young Lucy. There had flown

Some days, since from the English shore
They had returned, to seek their own
Beloved, native isle once more.
By easy stages they had moved,

As suited Henry's failing strength,
And to the grave of those they loved
In the far-west, drew near at length;
For, on the morn of which I write,
Lough Conn's wide waters met their sight.

How white the simple drapery!

This had their mother's birth-place been;
Therefore in death she had been laid
Within its churchyard. 'Twas a scene
Familiar to her children made
By one day's mournful duty. Here
Their father's modest funeral came
In later years. Mourners sincere,

Who loved and reverenced his name,
Had followed it, with pious care,
Even from the Shannon's borders fair.

They now an eminence had gained

Which overlooked the little town. With lagging pace the steeds attained

Its brow, then paused: hence looking down, Rosellan, by the moonlight seen,

Appeared most fair; for moonlight throws O'er every object how serene

A ray! or leaves in shadow those Which, seen by the day's searching light, Would seem ungainly to the sight.

Now, cradled by its circling hills,

Like sleeping child Rosellan lay So calm; the many tinkling rills

Which from the mountains made their way Across the level, with their clear,

Sweet voices sounded; these, alone, With their soft music, met the ear,

*

Except the sharp and ringing tone Of smitten anvil, or the bark Of many a watchful dog: but hark!

There comes another, and it streams

Up from yon chapel, where are sung
The masses for the dead: the gleams

Of many tapers, too, are flung
From its small pointed windows: high
Upon its front the Cross displayed,
Traced darkly 'gainst the starlit sky,

Invites the soul to prayer: the shade
Of yew-trees in its grave-yard shed
Their mournful shadow o'er the dead.

Except its lights, there shone but few;
For in the cabins frugal care
Had quenched the candle: labour, too,

Had nearly ceased; yet still there were
Some dwellings whence the lights still shone,
Like kindly welcomes; and of these
The little village inn was one.

Here, longing for repose and ease, The weary travellers shortly came With tearful eye and languid frame.

Morning found Lucy early dressed,

And risen betimes to look around On their new lodging. Henry's rest Remained unbroken. Lucy found All things adjusted with neat care, Yet no rude noise disturbed her. Her room was small; but oh, how fair The cleanliness which met her view! It spoke of a presiding mind Even in simplicity refined.

Its walls were of a dazzling white,

And hung with many pictures small In frames of wood, or gilded bright. The sacred subjects of them all Were from the Saviour's history.

True

And then how pure the well-scoured floor!

What fragrance, too, was wafted o'er From the sweet group of flowers which stood Upon the mantelpiece of wood!

This little chamber opened, too,

Upon another. With light touch Raising the latch, Lucy passed through And entered it: its size was much Superior, and it seemed to be

The village inn's 'best parlour.' Here
The walls were papered tastefully,

The windows hung with muslin clear:
A sofa graced it, and, yet more,
Bright-patterned carpet clothed the floor.
A fire of turf burned cheerily

Within the small bright grate; and near A little table met the eye

With air of social comfort: here
All preparations had been made
For the first daily meal: how bright
The simple delf upon it laid

On linen of the purest white!
A tiny clock, with ticking sound,
Alone disturbed the quiet round.

But now she heard a step advance,
And the presiding genius came
Of all this order: at a glance

Beholding Lucy, of her name
Still ignorant, with rustic grace
She dropped a curtesy, and remained
Silent. admiring that fair face,

Whose wondrous sweetness always gained A stranger's heart, and which now smiled Upon her with its greeting mild.

Lucy her modest dwelling praised;

And thus the first restraint removed,
The hostess chatted, while she gazed

Oft on the stranger, who approved
Of all her household plans; and then,
To please the worthy dame, inquired
If business prospered now, and when
Her profits were most large? Untired
Upon these topics, rapidly

She spoke, then left them suddenly. "It is," she said, with thoughtful air, "Some days since to this house there came A traveller, who seems to bear

Some lofty rank, and still his name
He gives but as Sir Henry,' saying,
It is his anxious wish to live
Most strictly private while here staying.
He must be wealthy: he can give
So liberally! In coming, too,
Four steeds his handsome chariot drew!
"He is a man advanced in years,

Though most erect and stately; yet,
Strangest of all, with frequent tears
His eyes are noticed to be wet!
And at the same hour every day→→→

Eleven at noon-unless the rain
Be most severe, he takes his way

Unto the churchyard. All in vaini We seek to solve the mystery

Of whom he mourns, or where they lie."

Lucy had listened earnestly

To this short story, and her cheek Grew pale and red by turns. With eye Intent the hostess watched, to seek