distracted husband's mind for the probable termination of Rosamonde's illness; and now, banished by the strict fiat of doctor and nurse from the sick chamber, the unhappy

man gave himself up, for the time, to paroxysms of despair, and peremptorily refused the society of the village curé who, with well meaning pertinacity, offered himself as the companion of his solitude.

"The ignorant!" said Auguste, bitterly. "Does he think that I am in the mood for his senseless gossip, or that I desire to be crammed with the jargon which he repeats like a parrot without understanding it? Or does he hope to convert me to the superstitions at which he himself laughs, and which I suppose he no more believes than I do?"

So," having no hope," and being "without God in the world," the miserable mourner shut himself up in his own room, and refused to be comforted.

He rose and paced the room in the direst distress. A few days, perhaps a few hours, and he might be if the fears of the physician were well founded, he should be—a wretched widower: the light of his life put out, never to be re-lighted.

Who can describe the mental agony of Auguste at this terrible crisis? With no consolation for this life, and no hope for the next; soon to be parted from one whom he so fondly loved, and without any prospect of reunion in a brighter, happier world, who can wonder that he abandoned himself to despair? Faith in Christ, who has "abolished death, and brought life and immortality to light," would have had consolation for him. But of those "exceeding great and precious promises " he was ignorant.

How came it to pass that at that moment of deep overwhelming sorrow, his eye rested-no, not rested, but transitorily glanced-on the "piece of antiquity" which so many months before had formed so insignificant and despised an item in the purchases he had made in Paris to give pleasure to Rosamonde? It is enough to say that the mind of the afflicted man was directed by this passing glance, to the incidents of that day,-to the wondering exclamations of Rosamonde when she first took the Bible into her hands-" so triste, so sad, so dull !"

And how was it that, with these recollections so vividly impressed on his mind, he took down the book from the shelf to which he had consigned it? It may be that he

thought the sad, dull romance would well suit his present morbid mood; that having no mind to be cheered, and so cheated of his angry, wilful, passionate reproaches against Fate for robbing him of his treasured but too transient happiness, he half hoped to find in the despised book some confirmation of a half-formed, floating, misty determination not to outlive the blow which was about to fall upon him. Whatever the impulse, the solitary man sat down Bible in hand.

Like many another who takes up a book which he has no intention of reading, and to the contents of which he is indifferent, Auguste first turned over the pages carelessly; and then, permitting it to open where it would, he as carelessly glanced at the first passages which met his eye.

"Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.

"And dost thou open thine eyes upon such an one, and bringest me into judgment with thee?

"There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.

"But man dieth, and wasteth away; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?

"If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come."*

Auguste closed the book angrily, and yet with mental perturbation.

Another day, and another, passed away. Rosamonde still lived; and still the afflicted husband kept solitary vigil in his library. A change had passed over him.

"If a man die, shall he live again ?—If a man die, shall he live again?" The question had strangely fastened on his mind. He did not believe it. He had long before answered this question in the negative; and the conclusion he had drawn from his solution of the problem was something like this,-" Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we die." "Let life be enjoyed, its roses plucked, its sweets exhausted; and then let the inevitable fate be met with courage."

*Job xiv. 1—14.

But the inevitable fate" had come too soon. The roses had too early withered, the sweets too rapidly exhausted; and courage failed.

"If a man die, shall he live again?—shall he live again?" The young infidel wished he had not opened the book which had stirred up this question in his thoughts; and nevertheless once more the Bible was spread open before him.

Many hours elapsed, and Auguste still read. Not for himself: he thought of Rosamonde. Midnight came, and the dawn broke, and yet the fevered and excited man read, for sleep had departed from him.

Another day, and Rosamonde still lived. More than this, she had revived. The doctor was with the young husband now.

"Do not despair, my friend," he said. "The crisis is already past; and if"

The pale face of Auguste was suddenly suffused. He trembled so that he could scarcely stand. Grasping the hand of the friendly physician, he burst into tears. "If?-you say if, doctor," he sobbed convulsively. "If nature and a good constitution will help us. my friend, you need repose."

But,

He needed it truly. Except by fitful snatches, the unhappy husband had not slept since the imminent danger of his Rosamonde had been revealed to him. Day and night had been the same to him. Auguste might have said this; but he turned impatiently away.

"My wife! my Rosamonde! may I not speak to her ?" "Not yet; not for many days will she be able to converse. And the doctor left him.

“If a man die, shall he live again?" If Rosamonde die, will she live again? The question still haunted the agitated man. And not that question alone. In the solitude of his library, in utter loneliness of heart, and without a guide or index to its contents, Auguste had turned over and over the pages of his despised "piece of antiquity." Almost fiercely he had done this at first, and half despising himself for the morbid fancy which compelled him, against his judgment, to give heed-or rather to give entrance into his mind-to this relic of ages long past. But anger and contempt had subsided into wonder; wonder had merged into doubt; and doubt had opened the door of his heart to self-reproach. If it should be true! Why had he

not investigated this matter more closely before? Why had he placed implicit confidence in the arguments of philosophical unbelievers, and rejected, without examination, the statements of an interested priesthood? Were philosophers so much better than priests? were their lives more pure? their intellects more profound? At any rate they were not infallible; and if, after all, there should be a mistake!

From doubt and wonder and self-reproach, the passage was short to bewilderment and dread. The word of God is "quick and powerful, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." And thus it became to the young husband. Still forbidden to remain in the sick chamber, where his wife yet lay between death and recovery, he had no heart for any other occupation than that upon which he had so strangely fallen; while, on the other hand, every page he read heightened and intensified his soul's distress. And no great wonder, for he had everything to learn; and while the curses of a broken law stared him in the face, and the thunders of Sinai rolled over his head, he knew not where to look for the glad tidings of great joy which the gospel reveals.

A few days more, and the young husband was permitted to enter upon a conversation with his wife. The fever which had consumed her was subdued; her mind was restored to consciousness; and only that her bodily strength was so prostrated that she was helpless as an infant, danger had passed away. The physician now spoke sanguinely of her recovery. A short half-hour had been yielded to the passionate entreaties of Auguste for an interview with his Rosamonde, thus restored to him as from the grave.

Trembling exceedingly, and worn and pallid, the husband drew near to the bedside, and gazed fondly on the changed countenance of the patient.

"Auguste, my poor Auguste," whispered Rosamonde,for her loudest voice was a whisper now" my poor Auguste! you have suffered more than I. You foolish one, "-she strove to speak merrily; but tears of affection glistened in her eyes,-" if I had died would you have been so very, very sorry?"

"Can you ask me this, Rosamonde, dearest ?"

"I did but jest, Auguste. But I will not leave you, and we shall be happy again-so happy!"

"I shall never be happy again, Rosamonde," broke from the stormy heart of the convinced man. "Listen to me, dearest: you remember when I returned from Paris, I brought with me a Bible?"

"Ah yes, that piece of antiquity; but, Auguste-" "Still listen, my own. I have had no rest for many days. How could I rest? Then, I cannot tell you what possessed me; but I took that Bible down from the shelf. Rosamonde, I have been reading it.”

"How droll!" said the invalid: " and tell me, my poor Auguste, has that made you so unhappy? We will burn the dismal book then."

"We must not burn it, Rosamonde," replied Auguste, with a shudder.

"And yet it has made you unhappy?" repeated the invalid.

"Yes truly, for you, my poor Rosamonde."

"It must be a very terrible book," said the sick wife, with a smile. "Since it has made you so unhappy, when I am well again, we will read it together. For if you are to be happy never more, I must be unhappy also."

DID IT BEAR FRUIT AFTERWARDS?

DID it bear fruit afterwards, teacher? These words were addressed to me some few Sundays since, by a dear little child, the youngest in my Sunday-school class, and one in whom I cannot help feeling an especial interest. I had been endeavouring to explain to the elder children (my class being a mixed one) the parable of the barren fig-tree. Margaret, as usual, stood at my elbow listening; but as I thought her too young fully to understand the subject, I did not address my observations specially to her. She had, however, evidently taken more interest in it than some much older than herself, for their school was over, and they were all seated quietly around while I distributed the tickets; she slid to my side, and looking up in my face said, in her usual soft, low tone, her countenance at the same time wearing rather a puzzled expression, "Did it bear fruit afterwards, teacher?"

"Did what bear fruit, Margaret?" I repeated, not at the moment understanding to what she referred.