"O Auguste, dear Auguste, you must not tell her; grief for Léon, sorrow for Nina, anxiety for Victor and Uncle Lucien, the dread and strain of our position in a besieged city-for her, weak, frail, suffering as she is is already enough, too much."

"That is what I think," he replied; "but until she knows, Renée, I must continue to do as I have done hitherto-act a lie."

need their help less, they at any rate deserve it more, for I have no faith, no trust, no devotion.

All day the forts have been firing heavily, but we have not yet learned what is transpiring, and my heart has been almost too sick to care.

October 1.-We heard last night that the result of the day's fighting had been very important. Uncle Lucien was in ecstacies of confidence and hope. General Trochu's proclama

"No, Renée, I do not think so. I see no reason to anticipate a speedy close. I believe the Prussians will continue to preserve their inactive tactics. It is no ruse, no weakness, no cowardice, but a settled plan and purpose. The armies of the provinces exist only in our rulers' minds and the people's fancy. Paris is full of men in uniform, but not of soldiers. And France cannot understand that this is her hour of weakness, and that she has no strength left to compete with the discipline and vigour of united Germany. We are beaten, Renée, worsted in an uneven struggle, and the end must come, but I do not think it will be yet."

sortie was made to discover the strength of the Prussian forces at Châtillon, and to blow up bridges over the Seine. Our troops do not seem to have succeeded in the latter object. They occupied Chevilly, L'Hay, Thiais, and Choisy le Roi, but Prussian reinforcements arrived, and they fell back in good order. The Governor praises the conduct of the soldiers, and calls the day a very honourable one; but the results seem confined to "very severe" losses on our side and on the enemy's. All day the wounded were being brought in. Victor is safe; we have not seen him, but he sent a message to that effect. Augustine has joined the International Ambulance; one of the assistants was struck yesterday by a chance bullet, and he was asked to fill his place. How differently should I have thought of his going, as one almost a priest of the Holy Church, among the sick and suffering, but two

Augustine was very tender, very kind, more moved outwardly than I had ever seen him. He sought to comfort me. But I can see he thinks mamma not better-worse. Oh! the darkness, the trouble, the sorrow seems deepening each day. Léon-we know not where-missing, lost Augustine-but this is my own dark secret, for he has promised to keep it such stillan unbeliever, a reprobate. Victor and Uncle Lucien in deadly peril day by day; Nina's young life crushed by sorrow; and mamma dying!

to us.

Yes, dying; Augustine meant that, I know, and I know he is right. And there is no help, no hope for all this. Prayer ought to help. I suppose it helps some people. It does not me. Heaven is so far off, and there are no saints on earth in these days. And how can I tell that the prayers I offer reach those above? If others

Everything seems against us. The mass of the people refuse to believe it; but it is too true. Will the terrible fate of Strasburg be ours? For myself I scarcely care, but for mamma and Nina.

Daily we are more and more reminded that we are the denizens of a besieged city. To-day an order has been issued to deliver up all stores of flour to the Government. Meat is already scarce, and only procurable by ticket and long waiting. Prices continue to rise; and a decree has been passed prohibiting the levy of all rents before December. Are we to become beggars, or starve? It seems very like it. My heart is too heavy to write to-day.

October 3.-Augustine's new creed certainly does not make him happy. His face bears still its haggard, troubled look. This morning he looked specially worn and harassed. There were a few wounded Germans brought in yesterday to the Palais de l'Industrie, now the headquarters of the International Ambulance; but there was no news of Léon. I do not expect any. But Nina does,-the sharpened, eager look of expectancy on her pale face goes to my heart.

Mamma was too weak to go out to-day; and this afternoon, when she was resting, and Nina shut up, as she often is, in her own room, I felt as if I could not bear the deep stillness of the empty house, broken only by the distant boom of the fort-guns. So I went out alone, into the Luxembourg Gardens, in the bright, clear air and glorious sunshine, thinking thereby to dispel the heavy weight of gloom that rested on my spirits.

There were many enjoying the beauty of the day in the broad avenues, and I turned into a quiet and less frequented one, where I could weep unseen. Something in the soft, sweet air seemed to have power to melt my pain into tears, and I wept long and bitterly. Then I took out Léon's photograph and the last letter I had received from him, one of the short, loving notes he sent before the fighting began, my own particular treasure; the last two belong to all, and rarely leave my mother's hands. I always keep mine in a little case in my pocket. When my heart yearns very sorely for him, it is even

something to touch what his hands have sent. Is this weak and sentimental? I fear many would say so; but it is true.

As I walked slowly homeward, sad and weary, but relieved by the tears I had shed, I met a lady and a little girl, whom I had often watched with strong interest. That they are English, I think I could have told without having sometimes caught a few words in that language as I passed them; evidently mother and child. The lady is apparently very weak and delicate, and the child supports and guides her feeble steps with a tender solicitude that often brings tears to my eyes. Both are dressed in deep mourn. ing, the lady in widow's weeds. I say the lady, though her dress is plain and threadbare; and the child's worn, rusty black frock, scanty and overgrown, tells of great poverty. They are not much alike; the lady has brown hair and soft, sad, dark eyes; and the girl, bright golden locks, falling in loose rich curls over her shoulders, deep blue eyes, and exquisitely fair complexion. Yet it is not the latter's beauty only that attracts me. Indeed, I cannot account for the strange interest which has often made me half decide on speaking to her. I think I should have done so ere this, only that she rarely leaves her mother's side; and the English are such a reserved people, she might resent my doing so. But to-day the fair child rendered me a great service. I had passed them and nearly reached the Garden gates, when I heard light footsteps coming rapidly behind me. I did not turn till a soft touch was laid on my arm, and a sweet voice said in broken French, "Pardon, mademoiselle; I think you have dropped this. I picked it up soon after you passed." It was the little case containing Léon's letter and portrait.

"Yes, it is mine," I said; "thank you very much, you do not know what a treasure you have saved me."

"I am very glad," she said shyly, and was turning away; but not wishing to lose this opportunity of making friends with her, I continued, "It contains the likeness of a dear brother, and the last letter I have had from him."

The blue eyes were raised to mine with a look

"We do not know, my child, whether he is living or dead, prisoner or free;" and the tears welled to my eyes again

The child laid her small hand on mine, with a look of perfect comprehension and sympathy, strange in one so young-she can only be about twelve at most-and said, "That is very hard. But, mademoiselle, God knows and God cares." Then, as if fearing she had made too free, she murmured something about "Mamma being waiting," and hurried away.

But those words, "God knows and God cares," have rung in my ears ever since. They were spoken with such perfect assurance of truth. Of course I believe God knows everything, for he is omniscient, omnipresent; but the "God knows" of that little English girl meant more than that. It implied the interested, individual, direct knowledge of one who personally cared to know; and her "God cares" was spoken with a simplicity of trust and realization, as of one whose loving solicitude and tender sympathy were beyond all question. Can it be so? Does God "know" and "care," in the sense she appeared to mean, for us, common, every-day people? How very sweet it would be to think so. I have so much need of some one to know and care for me and mine just now. No doubt my little English friend is a Protestant. And I suppose that good young German in whose arms poor Henri de l'Orme died was a Protestant too. Well, they seem to have very beautiful words and thoughts of God. Can they be so very wrong? At any rate I will not try to rob my heart of the strange, sweet feeling | of hope and peace those words give me, "God knows and God cares."

besiegers' favour than ours. He says the Mobiles are fast becoming good soldiers; and expects great things from his Bretons, who, however, do not agree well with the other troops. Few of them can understand French. Victor can speak their patois, and is a great favourite. He looks well, but much more thoughtful and manly. Poor Arnaud misses him sadly. The siege is a weary time for him. Most of his companions have left the city; but he is not yet tired of playing soldiers. I did not see the little English girl to-day.

October 5.-I told mamma last night of my little friend's words. She smiled that grave, sweet smile that so often lights her dear, worn face now, in spite of all her sorrow, and said, "The dear child is right, Renée. I am sure God does know, and I think he cares. He is good to us. It is our sins that rise up in a great dark barrier between us and him. If he let his own Son die to help us to obtain salvation, he must care. If we were only more faithful, more earnest, more patient. And, Renée," she added after a time, "I believe those words in our dear Léon's letter are his words, and therefore true words. It may be dangerous for us to know them sometimes. It must be, or the priest would not say so-the Holy Church would not forbid them. But they have done me good and not harm. It is sweet to me to think that my darling boy heard them, and that he sent them to us. They have made me understand better that God loves us. They are so tender and so sweet. I cannot but receive them. And they have made me more anxious to please and serve God than I ever was before, and I think at last at last, he will give me everlasting life. I seem to forget his majesty in his goodness, Renée, except sometimes, when Father Delille comes. Then he makes me afraid. But if it had not been for this, I could not have borne all these sorrows."

it has been of God and him. Her spirit seems so calm and holy.. It makes me feel she is too saintly for earth.

October 6.-I have not seen "my little friend," as I call her, either yesterday or to-day. I long to do so, as I shall not now hesitate to address her; and I feel doubly drawn to her by the help and comfort her simple words gave me the other day. Uncle Lucien says General Trochu has announced that he has a plan by which Paris is to be delivered, and that he is only waiting for the right moment to develop it.

Augustine is now constantly at the ambulance in the Palais de l'Industrie. I think he is happier for having unburdened his mind. I hope the solemn presence of suffering, and the awfulness of death, may lead him out of his dreadful error. His unbelief is so different from the infidelity of the many thoughtless and flippant men whom we know to hold similar views. He is so grave, and earnest, and true. It has cost him such bitter suffering; and I do not think it is over yet. He says Léon's last words, the night before he left, are all that he has known of help or hope for months. If he is fully settled in unbelief, why that worn, harassed look of distress and perplexity, not of grief only? It is possible that it is as yet even only a temptation. I must say the more prayers for him, because I alone know his need.

October 7.-To-day was delightfully sunny and balmy; and Uncle Lucien insisted on taking mamma, Nina, and me for a drive round the city-civilians not being allowed to pass the gates. He was anxious we should know how the city looked during the siege, which can scarcely last more than another week now, it is thought. A pigeon has brought a despatch from Tours with excellent news. Bazaine is prospering (I suppose still in Metz, however); two armies have been formed; and throughout the provinces the most resolute and enthusiastic war-spirit prevails.

Had it not been for the prospect of a speedy termination of the siege, our drive would have been sadder than it was; and I think no one thoroughly enjoyed it but Arnaud, who was delighted at the unwonted aspect of everything,

-and perhaps Uncle Lucien, who forgot the disfigurement in his soldiery interest. The Tuileries Gardens an artillery camp, filled with soldiers' tents and fires; the Place de la Concorde crowded with people and soldiers, especially before the statue of Strasburg, still, in spite of the city's fall, the object of the people's admiration, and almost covered with wreaths of immortelles; the Palais de l'Industrie an ambulance; the Cirque de l'Empératrice a barrack ; the Arc de Triomphe boarded up in case of bombardment; the Avenue de l'Empératrice barricaded and honeycombed at the sides; the Champs Elysées deserted; crowds gathered at Passy, Point du Jour, and the Trocadéro, watching the firing from the forts; the Champ de Mars a camp; the outer boulevards lined with tents for the soldiers; the squares filled with sheep and oxen, the streets with beggars and itinerant vendors of all kinds, blocking up the footpaths; hotels closed; shops deserted; — all speaking of change; and the unceasing stream of soldiery passing, repassing, marching, drilling, and the hollow roar of the cannon, reminding us of what we were little likely to forget,-the cause of that change. Is it strange that we returned home weary, sorrowful, and depressed? For even if deliverance come soon, it must be through torrents of blood and a hurricane of fire.

But "God knows and God cares." Like the sweet refrain of some heavenly melody, those words are borne to and fro over my spirit's troubled waters, hushing the storm, if not to calm, at least to less violence.

October 8.-Dear mamma has taken cold; she is feverish and ill, and it is so difficult to get the nourishment she needs so much. Not that there is any want as yet, at least to those who have money to buy, but it is sometimes necessary to wait two hours or more at the shop. Poor Justine, it tries her patience sorely; but she will do anything for mamma. The worst is, mamma cannot eat the meat when it does come. The beef is certainly of extraordinary coarseness and flavour; mutton is rarely procurable; and I already begin to look anxiously at our diminishing stock of ready money.

October 9.-To-day has been dull and showery. A weight of weariness and depression rests upon us that we cannot shake off. The house is so still; all ordinary interests are suspended. Mamma alone is even and cheerful. Poor Nina's passive meekness has changed for fitful irritability. But no flash of her old brightness or playfulness ever comes to break the monotony of our sorrowful quiet. Sometimes visitors call in; but it is a relief when they leave. My heart always sinks lower after the wild talk and absurd reports they are almost sure to indulge in; for the wisest and the bravest speak differently.

October 10.-The Palace of St. Cloud has been destroyed, fired by our own guns; and people seem rather proud of it than otherwise. Versailles is to follow, if necessary, they say. To-day it has been difficult to believe the cannonade was only from our own guns, the noise was so great. Mamma is better, but still unable to leave the house. Will she ever leave it again? I have nothing to record today. Waiting and watching, hoping and fearing. That is the story of each weary day now. Has the siege not yet lasted a month? Days are weeks in long, slow weariness.

October 11.-To-day Uncle Lucien went with Nina and me to the shrine of St. Geneviève, at the Church of St. Etienne du Mont. She and I have often been there before. Crowds of worshippers surround it daily. Ages have passed since the fierce hosts of the terrible Attila, "the scourge of God," melted away from the walls of Paris before the crook of the holy young shepherdess of Nanterre; from Troyes, before the cross of the blessed St. Loup; from Orléans, before the faithful prayers of the pious St. Agnan. And now other, and scarcely less formidable, invaders overrun the soil of fair France, and beleaguer her proudest cities. Men call them Huns, Goths, Pandours; but no saint stands forth in the

breach, strong in the faith that calls down God's mighty help.

upon

To-day Uncle Lucien actually wept as he spoke of the blasphemous tone of many of the papers that claim to be the voices of the people of Paris. Reviving the dark memories of '92, they call the people to use the sacred edifices of religion as the much-needed stabling for our cattle-many have been used by democratic orators to drive away the priests from hovering round the battlefields, and harassing the last hours of the free sons of Republican France with the exploded myths of an obsolete superstition. One mayor, M. Mottu, has even ordered the crucifixes to be removed from all the ambulances in his arrondisement. These accursed spirits of blasphemy and infidelity are strangling France in their hideous folds, like the deadly Laocoon serpent. How can a country be prosperous and pure that casts aside her faith, her priests, her God. And Augustine, my dearly beloved and honoured brother, ranges himself under their banner. Oh! may all the saints plead for thee, my brother, that thou mayest see thine error ere it be too late!

To-day, while kneeling amidst prostrate and weeping worshippers at St. Geneviève's shrine, pleading with her to intercede for the city she once saved from so terrible a fate, the thought struck me that it was not she, after all, but God that saved it. She went not forth like the glorious Jeanne d'Arc, with sword and mail. But she prayed, and God heard her, and answered by a miracle,-God knew and God cared. But then she was a saint. Oh! if God would but hear the cries, wrung like blood-drops from so many tortured hearts in Paris now! But then we are sinners, not saints; and God has no dealings with sinners.

CHAPTER XIV.

MIDNIGHT VIGILS.

"Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age hath done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days."
MRS. HEMANS.

October 12.-It is reported to-day that Count
Moltke is dead, that the Crown Prince is dying of