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"Well, then, you may come to me to-morrow and I'll give you something to do."

one or two days a week that she was wanted, and the rest of her time passed very slowly if Elfie did not come home all day.

Susie was delighted, and Elfie looked pleased. "You'll be sure to get on now," she said complacently. One morning Susie thought she would walk a little "Do you clean all these steps?" asked Susie, looking | further, and venture to inquire in another direction if a down the neat quiet street. girl was wanted to do housework. She had heard that

Elfie laughed. "I don't clean steps now, I tell you," girls sometimes could get a place to go to every morning, she said, rather sharply.

"Why not?" asked Susie; "do you get so many baskets to mind now ?" she asked.

"I don't mind baskets either," said Elfie fiercely. "I'm just street rubbish-just what people said I was long ago, and I don't care a bit. No, I don't care; and I won't care," she added, "though you do talk about that school, and try to coax me to go with you."

Susie looked at her angry face in silent surprise. What could have provoked this outbreak she could not tell, for she had not ventured to mention the Ragged School to her for some weeks past, although she had not given up all hope of persuading her to go with her. "Elfie, what's the matter-what do you mean?" she asked.

Elfie looked somewhat subdued. "Why, you're not to bother me about what I do to get the money," she said, rather more quietly. "I cleaned steps as long as I could, but I never had anybody to teach me to do things like you had; and then the people in the market called me a thief, and I couldn't get the baskets to mind."

"Never mind, Elfie; I know you ain't a thief, and I love you," said Susie, in a gentle, soothing voice.

But Elfie shrunk away from the proffered caress. "I'm bad, I tell you, and don't want you to love me." "Oh, but I will love you, even if you are bad," said Susie with a smile.

The altercation ended, as usual, in both girls promising they would never leave the other; but a feeling of uneasiness was left in Susie's mind, and she could not get rid of the wish to know more about the way in which Elfie spent her time now. She loved her companion very dearly, in spite of her strange behaviour sometimes, and she wished Elfie would tell her how she got the money she brought home. It was often silver now, as well as pence; but the possession of it never seemed to give her any pleasure, and she was sure to be fierce and angry if she asked where it came from, and would refuse to eat anything that was bought with it. This was very puzzling to Susie, and the more she thought about it the more unhappy did she become; and yet she was afraid to tell Elfie of her unhappiness, for fear she should put her oft-repeated threat into execution, and never come home any more.

She was earning a little money still herself, but she could not depend upon earning a regular amount as when she did the sewing; for people did not want their steps cleaned every day. She managed to give satisfaction in this new work, and the first to employ her recommended her to several neighbours; but it was only

and have part of their meals each day. Now, if she could do this it would be so much pleasanter, and she would not mind how hard she had to work; and she made up her mind to inquire for such a place as this before she left home.

Which way to turn she did not know, and she stood at the top of Fisher's Lane looking up and down the road debating this point, until at length she lifted her heart in silent prayer to God to guide her aright. Then she walked cheerfully on down the road for some distance, until she came to some quiet side-streets, and at the corner of one of these she went into a grocer's shop, and asked if they knew any one who wanted a girl.

The man asked her how old she was, and what work she could do; and then told her his wife wanted some one to help her with the work in the morning, and asked her to step into the back-parlour and speak to her. Susie's heart beat high with hope she went into the room, while the grocer called his wife. Surely God had directed her steps, that she should hear of what she wanted so soon!

The grocer's wife asked Susie a good many questions, but seemed to be satisfied with her answers. She could not, however, quite decide about taking her, she said; she must talk to her husband first, she did not know what he would say about taking her without a character, and from such a bad place as Fisher's Lane, too, and so she must come again the next morning.

Susie promised to do so, hoping the answer would be favourable, for she thought she should be very comfortable working under such a kind mistress; and then the wages offered-eighteen-pence a week and her breakfast and dinner-seemed to promise almost riches. Her heart was light although it trembled with anxious expectation as she went through the shop again.

Just as she reached the street she noticed there was a little commotion lower down; a group of boys and girls, and a policeman half dragging, half carrying somebody along. Susie's heart almost stood still as she caught sight of the little ragged culprit, and she could only totter forward a few steps past the grocer, who had stepped out on to the pavement, when she became sure it was Elfie in the policeman's hands.

"O Elfie, Elfie! what is it; what is the matter?" said Susie, darting forward.

At the sound of her voice Elfie ceased her struggles. (( Go away, Susie," she muttered hoarsely, staring at her wildly.

"No, no, I can't go away," said Susie, trying to catch hold of her frock. "Tell me what it is, Elfie."

"No need to ask what it is," laughed two or three

boys; "she's a regular little thief, she is; but she's caught at last, and serve her right."

Elfie looked defiant, and renewed her kicking and struggling, but Susie burst into tears. "Oh, don't take her away," she sobbed, appealing to the policeman; "oh, please let her come home with me, and she'll never do it any more."

"Home with you," said the man roughly. "Then you're one of the Fisher Lane thieves too, I suppose."

Susie's pale face flushed and a look of shame stole over it; but still she did not attempt to leave Elfie's side, although she knew all that crowd of boys and girls were staring at her and calling her a thief as well as Elfie.

"Why don't you go away, Susie? I don't want you; I never want to see you any more," said Elfie in a hard, defiant tone.

But Susie did not go away. They had got into the broad open road now, and everybody turned to look at them-looks that seemed to crush poor Susie and make her heart almost stand still with horror and anguish ; but still she kept on walking in the centre of the little crowd. "If Elfie has been stealing, you must take me up too," she said to the policeman, "for I had part of the money."

"I daresay you did. There's a nice lot of thieves round in Fisher's Lane, I know," said the man. And as the gates of the police-station were reached, he took good care that they should close on Susie too. She had no wish to escape, although she trembled as they entered a room where another man asked their names and where they lived.

While this was being done, the policeman who had brought them whispered to one of the others, and then they were taken to a dark room and locked up. Elfie screamed with terror as the door closed, and they were left standing there in the cold, dark room with only the rift of daylight that struggled through the grating high up in the wall. Susie shuddered, but she was not so frightened as Elfie, who fell sobbing on her neck.

Susie clasped her arms round her. "What is it, Elfie? What have you done?" asked Susie in a whisper.

"Just what they said. I've done it many a time," sobbed Elfie; "but I didn't do it to-day, for I see somebody coming, and put the boots down."

"O Elfie! you've been stealing," said Susie sadly. Elfie tried to twist herself away from Susie. "Why don't you say you hate me? I know you do," she said.

"No, I don't, Elfie, or else I shouldn't have come to prison with you," said Susie, holding her more tightly in her arms.

Elfie yielded to the loving embrace and sobbed again. "That's the worst of it," she said; "I shouldn't care so much for what the policeman could do to me, if you didn't know about it."

"But God would know, if I did not," said Susie, in a gentle whisper.

Elfie shuddered. "Does God know everything?" she said.

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more.

"Don't cry, don't cry, Susie, and I'll never do it any I'll try and get some honest work, though it is so hard," said Elfie, and her tears broke out afresh. The two sat down together on the hard, cold floor, and with their arms round each other's necks, Elfie promised never to steal again if Susie would leave off crying and love her still. "I will try to be honest, and mind the baskets and clean steps," she sobbed; "but they called me a thief when I wasn't; and then when we wanted that twopence for the rent, and I couldn't get it any other way, I thought I'd steal it, only you shouldn't know." "O Elfie, did you steal that sixpence ?" asked Susie. Elfie sobbed. "I stole some things and sold 'em to get that," she said;." that was the first time since I'd known you," she added.

"Did you steal before?" asked Susie.

"Yes, sometimes when I was very hungry; and they knew it at the Ragged School, that was why I wouldn't go with you," said Elfie, who seemed determined to make a full confession now.

"What did you steal?" asked Susie.

"All sorts of things,-anything I could see in shops and run away with. I never felt bad about it before, but when I took the things to get that sixpence for the rent, I felt I was wicked, and God seemed to be looking at me all the time, though I wanted to forget all about him." "Yes, God was looking at you," said Susie; "and he was sorry about you too; more sorry than I can be, because he loves you more than I do."

"More than you do," repeated Elfie; "he can't, for you've come to prison with me, though all the people was looking at you and calling you a thief."

"Yes, he has," said Susie. "Don't you remember I told you about the Lord Jesus being God as well as man? Well, he came down from heaven to die for our sins-to save us just because we had all been doing such wicked things as stealing, and telling lies, and forgetting him. But to do this he had to suffer a dreadful, cruel death. And he wasn't compelled to do it either, for he did not deserve it; it was us who deserved it, but he loved us so much that he took our punishment instead."

"But he won't love me now," said Elfie; "it's no good telling me about this now."

"Yes, it is, Elfie, if you will only ask him to help you to be honest in future," said Susie.

"But I've been stealing,-I've done such lots of bad things," said Elfie.

"But Jesus will forgive them all if you ask him," said Susie quickly. "He loves you still, Elfie; though you've been trying to forget him, he hasn't forgot you.

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Perhaps in after-years, when the frosts of age have silvered my hair, and the reflection of other days and other occurrences mingle with gathering mists on my mind's mirror,-now so clear and bright, giving back to my saddened gaze in such sharply-defined, truth - revealing outlines each memorable scene of the past eventful year, I may be glad to have preserved the records, which now, to us at least, are but those of the common details of daily life-its stream turned, indeed, from its ordinary course between the sheltering banks of social harmony and domestic peace, and dashing wildly with torrent force over the wrecks and ruins of our hopes, or spreading drearily out in the marshy flats of inaction and despair-but common, ordinary, daily life still, with its usual

WALLER.

routine of morning and evening, sleeping and waking, thinking and feeling, hoping and fearing, loving and sorrowing. Each day with its burden taken up, each night with its load laid down.

In measure, I mean. Of course, in such a life as we have led these months, everything seems disjointed, every thought and feeling intensified, every power of mind and body taxed to the uttermost. Yet we have been ourselves through it all, we people of Paris. Lifted out of ourselves, raised above ourselves-sometimes, alas! sunk below ourselves-it may be; still ourselves, not heroes and heroines, but poor, tried, sorrowful men and women, bearing the burden laid upon us, because it was there, and must be borne, because our hands were too feeble to lift it off.

But when time has rolled on, and these days have become historic, and these records of mine chronicles of an heroic time gone by; when, perhaps, little children and fair maidens gather round my knee as we did of old round that of our great aunt Marthe,-I may see their bright eyes dilate, their rosy lips quiver, and their smooth round cheeks flush high, as I read from these pages the touching details of meek endurance, and faithful love, and patient sorrow which now

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seem to be too deeply engraven on my memory | the bereaved, the suffering, the dying, of Jesus ever to wear away. And it may be that, like flint from flint, the deeds of brave men and noble women may strike answering sparks from those young eager spirits, while they cause my slower pulses to throb again as of yore.

And I think the memories of those days must ever turn my thoughts upwards and heavenward -to Him whom I first learned to know in those cloudy and dark days.

It was too sad to sit round the old hearth at home, amidst the vacant places that represented the broken links in our household chain. So we have come here, to this fair, sweet spot, where no traces of War's desolating footsteps are visible, no echoes of past strife, still vibrating so painfully round our old home, are heard; none but the sweet sounds of nature-the bird's glad song and the insect's hum in place of the cannon's boom-waving trees, and green hills, and pure sunshine instead of the battered walls, and blackened ruins, and worn, sorrowful faces of the fated city in which we dwelt-the aromatic scent of budding pines and sweet breath of violets in place of its oppressed, war-laden atmosphere-peasant simplicity and homely kindness instead of the causeless suspicion and ceaseless din of party strife. A goodly exchange indeed.

Already a faint tinge of colour is dawning on Nina's white cheek, and Arnaud makes the wooden walls of the old farmhouse ring at times with his boyish mirth. The young so soon forget! Or, rather, the natural elasticity of youth causes the rebound to be stronger and greater in proportion to the intensity and duration of the strain which has curbed it in at all. For Arnaud has not forgotten the Past, any more than I have forgotten the dread. I felt that he would never again be his old, bright, boyish self. It was so sad to see him, our merry ten-years-old boy, so quiet, and wise, and thoughtful.

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of him in whom his own long-tried spirit has found such perfect peace and rest. "Silver and gold I have none,' truly, Renée," he said the evening before he left, when, in the weakness and selfishness of human love, I strove to dissuade him from his purpose by pleading his incapacity to meet the overwhelming need of the starving, homeless destitution and misery of those over whom his heart yearned so tenderly; "but 'such as I have' I can give them,-'the unsearchable riches of Christ'-the bread and water of life;

offer to them, at least, in the Master's name! And if only one perishing soul receive the treasures that corrupt not, and accept the living food that will satisfy its hunger, and the water that will quench its thirst at once and for ever, were it not guerdon enough? And I look not for one, but for many. For the name of Jesus is that of one mighty to save' even 'to the uttermost.' In our weakness his strength is perfected."

After that I urged him no more, and now I am glad he went. The bitter partings and anxious watchings of the past year have made our hearts cling with tremulous tenacity to the actual presence of our loved ones, while we are yet listening to the dying echoes of the voices and footsteps of those who "are not."

And now I will begin my task, a sorrowful one indeed, but blending a sad pleasure with its pain. And it will not be a difficult one. From a child it has been a whim of mine to keep a simple diary of the "little things" that, after all, make up the sum of life. And though those "little things" became very hard things as the weary days wore on in the beleaguered capital, I did not give up my old habit. Day after day, except, indeed, during the last sorrowful month and one dark week before it, with trembling hand, and aching heart, and sinking spirit, I traced the brief story of its heavily-weighted hours. From those pages-here bright with hope, there blotted with tears and incoherent with terror-I mean to gather my-chronicle shall I call it? It seems too ambitious a name; but, for want of a better, I

will let it stand.

We had not always lived in Paris. The old Counts de Laborde owned a large estate near Montford, in Bretagne; but it had long ago

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crumbled away, piece by piece, even as the stately old chateau, upon the site of which my grandfather had built the unpretending mansion that had been the home of our childhood, had partially done, before the terrible year of 1789 completed the work of centuries in one fearful day of wrath and fire.

I have heard it said that we French are a nation of soldiers; certainly we De Labordes have ever been a family of such. From time immemorial, nearly all the sons have followed the profession of arms; and many are the tragic and heroic stories connected with our ancient house, to which in childhood we listened spell-bound as we hung round the knee of our dear old grandaunt Marthe, or wandered with our father through the rich woods and sunny slopes, which, but for the improvidence and folly of those martial ancestors; might have been our own fair inheritance. Ah, we have learned to look upon war in other colours now!

My father fell in the Mexican war of 1862, and his dust rests, like that of so many of his forefathers, far from all his kindred, in a strange and hostile soil. For a few years after his death we remained at Chateau Laborde; then, for the sake of the education of Victor and Arnaud, and to be near Léon, who had not then completed his studies at a military school in Paris, my mother accepted the offer of our Uncle Lucien, my father's only brother, to come and share his large house in Paris. And as little remained to us of the old estate of the De Labordes beyond the empty title that Léon bore, the house in which we had hitherto lived, and a few farms and cottages around, at Léon's earnest request and entreaty that little was sold.

Only I guessed how much this cost Léon; he treated it so lightly, as so necessary a thing for our comfort and the boys' advancement in life. But I had known him—his inmost heart-too long not to know how tenaciously it clung to the last link that bound us to a glorious past.

About that time, Nina de Lucheux, the orphan child of a dear friend and distant relation of my father, came to live with us. By M. de Lucheux's will, made many years previously, while she was yet a little child, my father had been appointed guardian of her and of her large property:

in case of his death, nis eldest son was to take his place. But Nina came to us not as the heiress we expected. Her father's estate was found to be mortgaged far above its value; it passed into the hands of his creditors, and a mere pittance was all that remained to her. Not the less welcome was the sorrowful young stranger to my mother's loving heart. Her orphanhood and loneliness were a surer claim to welcome than wealth. And soon the tender compassion we felt for her sorrow, so lately our own, deepened into love for herself.

She was then only sixteen, with all the playful gaiety of a child, the will and tact of a woman. Her mother had died at her birth, and she had been ever since the one object of her widowed father's love and care. And as her sunny nature broke from the thick clouds of grief that had concealed it when first she came amongst us, it melted all hearts before its bright influence. Her very wilfulness and waywardness seemed to make her more bewitching. There was a charm about her none could resist. Yet her thoughtlessness sometimes wounded deeply where she should have sought to soothe, her wilfulness was at times cruel, her careless levity often brought tears into loving eyes.

Some thought hers one of those bright, shallow natures, dancing, sparkling, rippling all the more because their stream is so shallow. Even my gentle mother feared it; the quiet depth of her own sweet character made it all the more difficult for her to comprehend one so opposite. But I never thought so. I felt sure there were deep, still waters lying unsounded yet beneath the surface sparkles. Nina, dear Nina, I know now that I was right! It was the real Nina that looked from the soft, bright eyes that watched my mother in her times of weariness and suffering, or gazed into my face in the quiet twilight hours when we two sat alone; she in her favourite seat at my feet, with her head resting against my knee, that breathed in the sweet tones of the gentle voice that spoke so wisely and tenderly at such times, when it seemed almost impossible to believe it was the same wilful girl whose headstrong waywardness so wearied good Uncle Lucien, whose petulant impatience and coquettish uncertainty so pained and troubled Léon.

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