"I do not hesitate to help you; only I see you are very much in love. You are not accustomed to it; and I fear that a condition so new to you is urging you rather too fast to so important a decision as marriage. A wife is not a mistress. In short, before taking an irrevocable step, I would beg of you to reflect once more.

"My friend," said the count, "I will not. I most sincerely believe that I cannot. You know my opinions. True passions give the decision; and I am not even sure that honor would be a sufficient argument against them. And besides, Lucan, what is there so unreasonable in marrying a woman I love? I cannot see that it is absolutely necessary not to love one's wife. In short, may I count upon you?".

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Absolutely," said Lucan, taking his hand. "I have made my objections, now I am quite at your service. I will speak to Clotilde at once. She is going to see

her daughter this afternoon. Come and dine with us to-day; but summon up all your firmness, for success is very uncertain."

It was not difficult for M. de Lucan to win over Clotilde to M. de Moras' side. After she had listened to him, not without several surprised interruptions, she said,

Ah, it would be ideal! This marriage would not only put an end to plans that are breaking my heart, but it combines all the conditions of happiness that I could have dreamt of for my daughter; and besides, your friendship for Pierre would, quite naturally, bring about an intimacy between his wife and you. All that would be only too fortunate; but how can we hope for so complete and sudden a change in Julia's ideas? She will not even let me finish my message.

She set out, trembling with anxiety. She found Julia alone in her room, trying on her novice's dress before the glass. The nun's cape and veil, which were to hide her rich hair, lay on the bed. She was simply dressed in a long tunic of white wool, whose folds she was arranging. She blushed when she saw her mother enter, and then said, laughing.

Cymodocea in the circus, am I not, mother?"

Clotilde did not answer. She had folded her hands in an attitude of supplication, and looked at her tearfully. Julia was touched by this silent grief; two tears dropped from her eyes, and she threw her arms round her mother's neck; then, forcing her into a seat, said,

"What would you have? I am also a little sorry at heart, for I did love life; but, besides my vocation, which is a true one, I am obeying a real necessity. There is no other existence possible for me but this, I know quite well. It is my fault. I have been a little mad. I ought not to have left you in the first instance; or, at any rate, I should have returned to you directly after your marriage. Now, after months, years, is it still possible, I ask you? Besides, I should die of shame. Can you imagine me before your husband? What expression should I assume? Then he must hate me; he has got accustomed to it. For my part, who knows whether seeing him again in that house-Besides, in every way, I should be a terrible constraint to you!"

"But, my dear little daughter," said Clotilde," nobody hates you. You would be received like the Prodigal Son, with transports of delight. If it would be too great an effort to return to my house, if you fear to find annoyance yourself, or to cause it to others-God knows how mistaken you are-but still, if you do fear it, is that any reason for you to bury yourself alive and break my heart? Could you not return to the world without returning to me, and without facing all these annoyances that alarm you? There would be a very simple means, you know."

"What?" said Julia, calmly. "To marry?"

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Certainly," said Clotilde, gently bowing her head and lowering her voice.

But, my dear mother, what probability is there of such a thing? Even if I wished it and I am far from doing so I know no one, no one knows me.

"There is some one, said Clotilde, with increasing timidity, some one you know very well, and who adores you.

Julia opened her eyes wide, with a surprised and pensive expression, and after a short pause for reflection said

"Pierre ?"

"Yes," muttered Clotilde, pale with anxiety.

Julia's brows contracted slightly. She raised her charming head, and remained for some moments with her eyes fixed on the ceiling; then, with a slight shrug of the shoulders

"Why not?" said she, seriously. "He will do as well as another.

Clotilde gave a little cry, and, seizing both her daughter's hands, exclaimed

"You are willing-you are really willing! It is true! You will allow me to take him this answer?"

"Yes; but change the wording of it," said Julia, laughing.

"O my dear, dear darling!" exclaimed Clotilde, as she covered Julia's hands with kisses; "but tell me once more that it is really true, that to-morrow you will not have changed your mind."

"No!" said Julia, firmly, with her grave and musical voice.

She considered a moment and then continued

"Poor man! And he is awaiting the answer?"

"In fear and trembling."

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'Well, then, go and calm him. We will continue the conversation to-morrow. I must arrange my ideas a little after such an upset; but rest satisfied, my resolution is taken."

When Madame de Lucan returned home, Pierre de Moras was awaiting her in the drawing-room. He turned pale when he saw her.

"Pierre," exclaimed she, breathlessly, "kiss me; you are my son! Respectfully, if you please-respectfully," added she, laughing, as he lifted her up and pressed her to his heart.

He repeated the performance afterwards with the Baroness de Pers, who had been hastily summoned.

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'My dear friend," said she, “I am delighted-delighted; but you are suffocating me! Yes, yes, it is all very well, my boy, but you are literally suffocating me! Reserve your forces! That dear little girl-it is charming of her, quite charming! At bottom she has a golden heart. And she has good taste; for you are very handsome, very handsome! However, I always did think that, when the time came for cutting her hair, she would reflect. Certainly she has beautiful hair, poor child!"

And the baroness burst into tears; then, addressing the count in a parenthesis between her sobs

"You will not be unhappy, either; she is a goddess.'

M. de Lucan, although deeply touched by this family scene, and especially by Clotilde's joy, took this unhoped-for event with more calmness. He was always very sparing of public manifestations, and in his heart he was troubled and sad. The future prospects of this marriage seemed to him most uncertain, and his sincere friendship for the count made him anxious. A feeling of delicate reserve towards Julia had prevented him from saying all that he thought of her character. He endeavored to reject as unjust and partial the opinion he had formed; but when he remembered the dreadful child he used to know, at one moment carried off by a whirlwind, at another pensive and surrounded by sombre reserve; when he imagined her as she had been described to him since then

-taller, more beautiful, ascetic-and then saw her suddenly throw her veil to the winds like one of the fantastic nuns in Robert le Diable, and return to the world with light step then, in spite of himself, out of these various impressions he composed a chimera and sphinx that it seemed very difficult to combine with the idea of domestic happiness.

During the whole evening the family conversation turned upon the complications that might arise from this marriage, and the means of avoiding them. M. de Lucan entered into these details with a very good grace, and declared that he would be most happy to agree to any arrangements that his stepdaughter might desire. This precaution was not useless.

Clotilde went to the convent early next morning. Julia, after listening with some what ironical indifference to her mother's account of the delight and joy of her intended, assumed a more serious air:

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And your husband," said she; "what does he think?"

"He is delighted, as we all are." "I am going to ask you a strange question. Does he mean to be present at our wedding?"

"Just as you please.'

'Listen, my dear little mother-don't make yourself miserable beforehand. I feel sure that some day or other this marriage will help to unite us all; but leave me time to accustom myself to this idea. Grant me some months for the old Julia to be forgotten, and to forget her myself. You will agree to that, will you not?" "Whatever you wish," said Clotilde, sighing.

"I beg of you. Tell him that I beg of him also.

"I will tell him; but do you know that Pierre is here?"

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'Ah, indeed! But where?" "I have left him in the garden." "In the garden?-what imprudence, mother! Why, these ladies will tear him to pieces like Orpheus; for you may fancy he is not in the odor of sanctity here."

M. de Moras was summoned. Julia began to laugh when he appeared, and this facilitated his entrance. During their interview she had several attacks of that nervous laugh which is so useful to women in difficult circumstances. Not having this resource, M. de Moras contented

himself with timidly kissing his cousin's beautiful hands; but his handsome masculine features were radiant with delight, and his large blue eyes were moist with happy tenderness. It seems that he made a favorable impression.

"I never before regarded him from that point of view," said Julia to her mother. He is really handsome-a splendid husband!"

The wedding took place three months after. It was quite quiet, without any show. The Count de Moras and his young wife departed for Italy the same evening.

M. de Lucan had left Paris two or three weeks before, and had taken up his abode in the heart of Normandy, in an old family house, where Clotilde hastened to join him immediately after Julia's departure.

TWO MONTHS AFTER MARRIAGE.

They both left the castle, carrying with them their guns, so that they might be supposed to have gone, as they often did, to shoot sea-gulls. As they were about to choose their direction, M de Moras consulted Lucan by a look.

"I see no danger," said Lucan, "except near the cliffs. Some words that she let drop yesterday make me fear that the danger is there; but with her horse she is obliged to make a long round; and if we cross the woods we can be there before her."

They entered the forest on the west of the castle, and walked quickly and silently. This path led them straight to the cliffs they had visited the day before. On this side the woods projected in an irregular point, and its last trees almost touched the edge of the cliff. As they neared the edge, feverishly hastening their steps, Lucan suddenly stopped.

"Listen!" said he.

The sound of a horse's gallop was distinctly heard upon the hard ground. They began to run.

A slight talus separated the wood from the cliffs. They had half descended it, catching hold of the hanging branches, themselves hidden by the bushes and foliage, when a striking spectacle met their eyes. A little on their left Julia was arriving after a frantic ride. She crossed the oblique line of the woods, and seemed to be making straight for the edge of the

cliff. At first they thought the horse had run away, but soon they saw that she was whipping its sides to increase its pace. She was then about a hundred steps from the two men, and she had to pass before them.

Lucan sprang forward to throw himself on to the other side of the talus, when M. de Moras' hand was laid heavily on his arm and stayed him.

They looked at each other. Lucan was stupefied at seeing the great change which had suddenly contracted the count's face and furrowed his eyes; at the same instant he read in his fixed gaze intense sorrow and inexorable resolution. He understood that there was no longer any secret between them. He obeyed this glance, which he felt had for him only an expression of confidence and of friendly supplication. His own contracted hand seized his friend's, and remained motionless.

The horse passed them at a few paces' distance, its breast white with spume; while Julia-beautiful, graceful, and charming even in this terrible moment-rose lightly in the saddle.

Some feet from the fissure in the cliff, the horse, divining an abyss, turned round suddenly and traced a semicircle. She brought it back to the plateau, retreated a space, and, urging it with whip and voice, drove it once more towards the terrible precipice. When the animal again refused to encounter this formidable obstacle, the young woman—with her hair loosened, her eyes flashing, her nostrils dilated-turned it round, and gradually made it back towards the edge of the cliff. The horse-steaming, prancing-rose almost upright, and stood out in its full height against the gray morning sky.

Lucan felt M. de Moras' nails enter his flesh.

At last the horse was conquered. Its two hind-feet left the earth, and met space. It fell over; its fore-feet beat the air convulsively.

The next moment the cliff was void. Not a sound had been heard. In the deep abyss the fall and the death had been silent.

THE FIRESIDE.

[Nathaniel Cotton, an English physician and poet, born in 1707, died in 1788. He was noted for his

skill in the treatment of mental diseases. He conducted a private lunatic asylum, and among his patients was Cowper, who makes special mention of his "well-known

humanity and sweetness of temper." He published Visions in Verse, designed for children (1751); and after his death was published a collection of his Works in Prose and Verse.]

I.

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride
Be called our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

II.

From the gay world we'll oft retire To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs; No noisy neighbor enters here; Nor intermeddling stranger near, To spoil our heartfelt joys.

III.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam: From our own selves our joy must flow, The world has nothing to bestow;

And that dear hut-our home.

IX.

Our portion is not large, indeed; But then how little do we need!

For nature's calls are few; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice

And make that little do.

XIII.

Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go; Its checkered paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead;

XIV.

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

Go to I will not hear of it. "To-morrow!" 'Tis a sharper who stakes his penury Against thy plenty; who takes thy ready cash

And pays thee naught but wishes, hopes and promises,

The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor! "To-morrow!"
It is a period nowhere to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless, perchance, in the fool's calendar!
Wisdom disdains the word, nor holds society
With those who own it.-No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as
baseless

As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend; arrest the present moments;

For, be assured, they are all arrant tell-tales; And though their flight be silent, and their path

Trackless as the winged couriers of the air, They post to heaven, and there record thy folly:

Because, tho' stationed on the important watch,

Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved.
And know, for that thou slumberest on the
guard,

Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-winked Justice, who shall tell thy

audit?

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio! Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms, far more precious

Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountains!

Oh, let it not elude thy grasp, but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee!
NATHANIEL COTTON.

ODE ON THE SPRING.

[This Turkish ode on the Spring is selected from many others in the same language written by Mesihi, a poet of great repute at Constantinople, who lived in the

reign of Soliman the Second, or the Lawgiver; he died A. D. 1512. It is not unlike the Vigil of Venus, which has been ascribed to Catullus; the measure of it is

nearly the same with that of the Latin poem, and it has, like that, a lively burden at the end of every stanza. The works of Mesihi are preserved in the archives of the Royal Society.]

Hear how the nightingales, on every spray, Hail in wild notes the sweet return of May! The gale, that o'er yon waving almond blows, The verdant bank with silver blossoms strows: The smiling season decks each flowery glade. Be gay too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air! Hills, dales, and woods their loveliest mantles

wear.

Who knows what cares await that fatal day, When ruder gusts shall banish gentle May? Ev'n death, perhaps, our valleys will invade. Be gay; too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The tulip now its varied hue displays,
And sheds, like Ahmed's eye, celestial rays.
Ah, nation ever faithful, ever true,
The joys of youth, while May invites, pursue!
Will not these notes your timorous minds per-
suade?

Be gay too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The sparkling dewdrops o'er the lilies play, Like Orient pearls, or like the beams of day. If love and mirth your wanton thoughts engage,

Attend, ye nymphs! (a poet's words are sage). While thus you sit beneath the trembling shade,

Be gay too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The fresh-blown rose like Zeineb's cheek appears,

When pearls, like dewdrops, glitter in her

ears.

The charms of youth at once are seen and past;

And Nature says, "They are too sweet to last."