With my mother she was always gentle-who could be otherwise? With Victor and Arnaud everyone but my mother and Léon were out of patience sometimes. Alone with me, she was generally her true self; though I had my full experience of all her varying moods. Naturally impulsive, passionate, quick to think and feel, with no counter influences against her father's unbounded petting and indulgence, she had sprung up with the weeds and flowers of her character alike flourishing in wild confusion. She had been used to indulge every passing fancy -to give way to every sudden impulse-to bestow no heed or thought on the feelings or requirements of others. And it needed the furnace of trial, heated sevenfold, to purge away the dross from the wealth of pure ore in her rich nature. She has passed through that furnace, and has come through it purified, refined, with the image of the Great Refiner stamped upon her character. But I must not grow thus garrulous over my dear ones; if I linger in this way over each one, my pages will be filled with pictures of them alone. Pictures fairer, indeed, to my eye and dearer to my heart than any other, but not such certainly as will carry out my purpose. So I will not stay to speak of our precious, sainted mother words would indeed fail me were I to attempt to find any deep and strong enough to express half of what she was-of our dear, kind Uncle Lucien, whose genial heart early disappointment and a long lonely life had neither chilled nor blighted -of Léon, our noble, tender, elder brother, who, from the day the letter came that told my mother she was widowed, and us that we were orphaned, had been her stay and counsellor, our guardian and helper-of Augustine, the gentle, grave, thoughtful priest that was to be, the saint of the family-of Victor, gay, joyous Victor, with his brilliant talents and unlimited fund of mirth and spirit-and of little Arnaud. We were all together, all at home, that last winter and spring, a happy, loving band. How well I remember the happy Christmas time! How cherished, as treasures untold gold could not purchase, are the trifling tokens of affection given with sweet words of love and hope from beloved lips that last New Year's Day, by those on whom another was never to dawn. Well, days and years are alike to them now. And it may be the "Happy New Year" we wished them then with smiling lips and light hearts, that boded no coming shadows, has come to them now. 66 May be!" Oh, when shall I cast off the old chains, and soar into the full sunshine of faith and peace. Old associations are so strong-old habits of thought and feeling so powerful. Sometimes my heart seems fettered still by the dogmas of the old gloomy creed, and it is only as I breathe the free, pure air of gospel light and liberty while talking to those whose spirits are ever rejoicing in the liberty wherewith Christ has made us free, or while reading the simple yet deep pages of the Word of Life, or at times when alone at the feet of Jesus, that it feels free even yet. I am afraid I do not understand much, or see anything clearly. But one thing I do-not see or understand, but believe and rest on-the free grace of God in Jesus Christ. The finished work of that cross that was once so vague a symbol, so shadowy a subject to me. shadowy a subject to me. And the cords of lov ing kindness which have gently, silently, irre sistibly drawn my wandering heart towards the living, loving one whose sinless beatings were stilled in the terrible death-agony of that very cross, are such as no strain can break, no failure and falseness loosen; for their golden strands are twined of that "everlasting love" that knows no change, no chill in time,--that will endure through the countless ages of eternity. Yes, "everlasting love." Those words must ever be my soul's sheet-anchor. God's own message to me through dying lips, borne by feet already touching the eternal shore, beyond the deep, dark Jordan waters. CHAPTER II. GATHERING CLOUDS. "Coming events cast their shadows before." CAMPBELL LOOKING back now upon the past that was our present in the early months of 1870, it seems strange that deeper shadows from the mighty events whose mountain magnitude was to crush, not individual hearts only, but a nation's life, should not have been cast on our quiet pathway. It is true there was enough of discontent and agitation in Paris to rouse thoughtful minds to the startling fact that we were walking with careless tread and unbent brows over the thin crust that covered a smouldering volcano, which might at any moment break out into terrific action. Dark looks and fiery glances under greasy ouvriers' caps, vague under-breathed attacks from a chained and suspected press, ignorance and dissipation under gay gold-bedizened uniforms, disorder and confusion in cabinet and council, venality and cupidity in the civil and military administration of a despised ministry and distrusted ruler; and, some said, a cumbrous and costly army organization, fair to the eye, telling well on paper, but in reality a polished shell without a kernel. But there were few who took note of these things still fewer who gave them, even in measure, the earnest heed they called for. The strife of political parties, the secret meetings and open demonstrations of the Reds, made but a passing ripple in the smooth surface of Parisian life. Balls and fêtes, operas and theatres, soirées and concert-rooms, were thronged as usual. I saw more of these that last winter than ever. Nina's bright beauty and winning manners made her presence constantly sought, and our circle of acquaintance widened constantly-too much indeed. come to us, the loving gifts of a Father's heart, disguised as tempest and shadow, bringing their own weight, their own message to each. And he knows how to adjust the burden to the bearer, the bearer to the burden. Now I know this; then I did not. And I know I seemed to have many cares, many anxieties; not about the clouds that were lowering so heavily on the political horizon--not about the sullen calm and breathless hush that ever precedes a storm-not about the low mutterings of the distant battle-thunders. No; they were about simpler things, and things that were nearer to my heart. To begin with one of the least-the burden of ways and means. We were certainly not poor, for Uncle Lucien made a common purse with us. Léon had for some time held a commission in a regiment of cuirassiers stationed in Paris, and always made his pay more than suffice for his wants; and Augustine had a scholarship in the university, and was no drain upon our resources; but Victor's extravagance and thoughtlessness seemed to counterbalance this. And it was not always easy to meet Nina's requirements. Brought up as an heiress, accustomed to the most lavish expenditure, she had really no idea of the value of money; and without in the least intending it, she made her bills for dress, and the various trifles she considered indispensable, a very serious item in our expenditure. And it was as impossible to wound her sensitive feelings by pointing this out to her, as it was to draw her attention to it otherwise. At least so it was to me. And she was so lovely, so full of enjoyment, which I could not bear to damp. Looking down the long pages of clear even writing in my diary, I almost wonder now to find how anxious a spirit and careful a heart I bore at that time. It reminds me how true it is that the due proportion of things can only be estimated by comparison. It is not by the actual form and size of a burden we can judge of its weight. A tiny casket of lead will strain muscles It was very weak of me, I suppose; for I felt that would not feel the pressure of a huge packet the butterfly tendencies of her nature were being of down. We smile at a child's grief over a fostered and developed rapidly in the unwholebroken toy; but as year after year rolls by, and some atmosphere of excitement in which she we gather more and more of the bitter fruitage lived, and that the good and the true were being of life's experience, and look back upon the land- | proportionably blighted and repressed. She was marks, great and small, of our pilgrimage, we more volatile and wayward than ever, and her grow wiser. The blast that bends the frail sap- times of seriousness and reality were fewer. But ling to the earth, passes unheeded over the stal- she was so bright and sweet, I loved her so dearly; wart tree; the thunder rain which dashes down and I was so much older than she-less certainly the fragile lily, only brings added freshness and in years than in heart. My mother's health had sweetness to the hardy briar at its side. always been delicate; it had never recovered the So with the trials and discipline of life; they shock of my father's death; and I, as only daughter and sister, had early entered on life's cares and responsibilities. Then I was troubled too about Augustine. Grave and thoughtful he had always been, even in boyhood, yet most affectionate and kind. But of late his thoughtfulness had deepened into gloom; a shadow rested ever on his pale worn face; the forced smiles that came rarely to the set lips, never passed into the dark melancholy eyes. He took little part in our domestic and social pleasures; an under-tone of bitterness seemed in some indescribable manner to run through all his words. He shunned Léon, his own especial brother and friend; Victor's raillery and Nina's playfulness provoked him unaccountably. With my mother only he was like his old kind self. His temper, once so sweet and even, had grown irritable and morose. Little Arnaud's seemed the only homepresence he courted. All this puzzled and distressed me sorely. He had finished his course of study, preparatory to entering the Church, and was now waiting for the time to come for him to take orders. Many were the fancies that flitted through my brain. Averse to entering holy orders I could not suppose him to be; it had been the one aim and purpose to which his whole life had tended; unless, indeed, some unfortunate earthly attachment had intervened between him and his sacred calling. I could not think that; his life had been lived with us, and I had no reason to suppose it. Did he mean to become a monk? Had he received a "vocation," and was his heart resisting it? Many other solutions of the problem of his changed manner occurred to me, all equally wide of the mark, all equally distressful to my heart. But And then Victor was so thoughtless, so wild. He was studying for the bar, and his brilliant talents warranted the highest hopes of his future career. Already, though only eighteen, he had distanced most of his fellow-students, and gained many honours most unusual to his age. there was so great a want of stability of purpose and steadiness of application in him. For days, even for weeks, at times, he would entirely neglect his studies, pass his time in idleness and folly in the company of others young and thoughtless as himself; then, as an examination approached, resume them with desperate ardour-shutting himself up in his room, and working almost day and night-and in the end triumph over the less gifted scholars who had been steadily pursuing the monotonous beaten track. This, to him, was answer enough in justification of his trifling habits; but not so to us. It was not that, as people say, there was any harm in him; as yet, it was fun and frolic, not vice, that attracted him; but affection jealously watches the opening of the sluices to the first trickling drops that herald the torrent rush of the turbid stream. It was more the impossi bility of making him give things one serious thought-the uncontrollable spirit of levity, that spared nothing, however solemn, that seemed to see nothing in its true proportions-that troubled And his mirth was so infectious—there was such a charm in his bright, joyous presence—such glad sunshine flashed from his young fair facesuch a mingled light of love and fun and hope beamed from his clear dark eyes-that it was impossible to lecture or argue with him, even while our spirits were chafed by his reckless ways. Ah, dear Victor, I fear I was often hard on you in those days! But it is difficult to see things clearly through the blinding mist of tears. us. And last to be recorded, because the greatest, were my fears and forebodings as to my mother's health. For years she had been fragile and delicate, needing and receiving the utmost care and tenderness from all her children. But that winter she had been unusually ailing, and I watched with aching heart the gradual but sure decay of the feeble strength, the slow but too palpable wasting of the slender frame. And not I only, but all. We said at first it was the inclement winter, then the trying spring weather. The doctor recommended change of air and scene, and we were preparing, in the end of April, to leave our city-home for the pure fresh air of the country, for the sunny summer months. (C Man proposes, but God disposes." The last week of April found our precious mother stretched on a bed round which we watched as over that of death. But after long weeks of suspense, she came slowly back to us out of the mists of that terrible valley. Other shades were gathering round us ere then-dim forecastings of coming separation and strife; but we suffered them not to fall round her feeble footsteps. Her strength returned, and the doctor told us, with care and abundance of suitable nourishment she might be still the centre link of our home-band for many years to come. How little then could we read a sentence of death in those hopeful and cheering words-how little realize with what sickness of heart we should one day recall them! Before she could in any measure resume her ordinary invalid habits, the question of candidateship for the throne of Spain had arisen, and in the conflicting wills of the rulers of Prussia and France men detected the key-note of the coming strife. My Uncle Lucien returned from stormy debates with troubled brow and excited gestures, and vented his indignation and opinions against Léon's calm, rock-like convictions, which, after all, influenced Uncle Lucien, as they did every one else, more or less, by their very quiet force. Our uncle was decidedly in favour of war. France must rise and shake herself, and go forth as of old, to avenge her insulted dignity upon those insolent boors of Germans; and conquer of course. The very supposition to the contrary incensed him beyond all endurance. I believe France and victory were to him synonymous terms. Léon was graver and quieter than of old; he spoke little, but the lines of thought deepened on his brow and gathered round his silent lips when Uncle Lucien and Victor, and the many young and fiery spirits that met in our house, spoke lightly of the coming strife, vaunting of the chastisement in store for the despised Prussians, the fresh laurels for the haughty brow of France, to be gathered on fields that were to be all Jenas, to be borne in triumph through the opened gates of the far-off northern capital, and back again over the blue waters of the rushing Rhine, the German Rhine no longer. Probably it was only the dominance of my life-long habit of trusting to the mind and judgment of Léon in everything, that caused my heart to sink with a dreary chill as I listened to these conversations, in which he took so small a part, and that part generally in depreciation of any under-rating of the strength and importance of the foe, or too flippant confidence in the invincibility of the arms of France. Any remarks of his to this effect inevitably drew upon him a chorus of indignation, ridicule, and contempt, and he would relapse into silence. My mother then knew of the impending struggle; she was better, had resumed almost her old habits, and it was no longer possible or desirable to conceal it from her. We all knew, though we did not speak of it, that Léon's regiment could scarcely fail to be one of the first ordered to the front. That was the chief meaning of the war to us-separation from Léon. How much that meant to me, to us all, it would be impossible to say; and to my mother! My heart ached as I marked the wistful eyes with which she followed his every movement in the hours he spent at home. Augustine had roused a little out of the apathetic gloom that enveloped him. Victor was wild with excitement, intensely provoked by Léon's quietness, almost ready to throw up his studies and volunteer for the ranks. Even little Arnaud caught the war-infection, and paraded the house armed to the teeth with the miniature weapons that are the delight of every French child, attacking imaginary Prussians in every part of the house, being more than once detected in attempting to purloin real powder wherewith to charge his artillery. I wonder how much the prevalence of military toys in our nurseries has to do with the intense love of fighting which is so strong and acknowledged a characteristic of our nation. It is difficult to separate cause from effect, and effect from cause; but it seems to me as if I could never bear to see a child "playing soldiers" again. Time, they say, deadens all things; but I cannot now look on martial weapons without a convulsive spasm of shuddering horror at my heart. Nina had returned to her old ways. During my mother's illness she had been so subdued and gentle, so full of loving thoughtfulness and tender anxiety, not only for the beloved invalid, but for all and each of us, we had almost learned to forget that she could be wilful. In the bond of a common anxiety and sorrow, she and Léon were drawn closely together, while I watched by my. mother's bed; and all her little coquettish whims and ways were laid aside, as she sought only to soothe and cheer him and Uncle Lucien, and make the oppressive hush of the house, where sickness cast its gloomy shadow, less trying to Victor and Arnaud. But it was only for a time. As the last days in which there was the least reasonable ground for anxiety in my mother's state passed by, a change came. First in her treatment of Léon. She would avoid him, carelessly throw aside the flowers and books he brought her, oppose his views, ridicule his sentiments, and rarely gratify him with the music of which he was so fond, or join in the songs, his favourites and hers, in which his deep tones and her clear, sweet, birdlike voice blended so well. All this was most trying-to me; still more to Léon. To me, because I had long known in what chamber in his heart Nina's image was enshrined the inner sanctuary of its earthly affection. How the knowledge came I do not know; not from his lips, for it was only tacitly understood between us. It grew upon me by degrees; at first-shall I confess it?-with an under-current of jealous pain. She seemed to prize so little the devotion of the noble heart which was to me the most precious thing on earth, except my mother's love. On earth, and I had nothing beyond earth in those days. I knew nothing of the living, loving human heart beating beneath the golden girdle of the glorified Man above-of the mighty, gentle hand that could lay down the seven stars, to touch and raise his awed and glory-dazzled servant from his feet-of the voice whose sound was as that of many waters, yet whispered low and sweet, as the countenance shining as the sun in his strength stooped-yes, stooped over that prostrate form: "Fear not; I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, and have the keys of hell and of death." Yes; HE holdeth the keys-not Peter, not Rome; but he himself-Jesus. He has already unlocked the golden gates that lead into his eternal presence to those loved faces whose vanished light leaves our home so sadly darkened. Theirs is with him now; and where he is and they are must be like home to us. How different the thought of the many mansions in the Father's house above, from the ideas of heaven I once had. A place of dazzling, unen durable, unapproachable glory; an awful throne of spotless light, high on its highest heights; upon it a Presence of terrible majesty, too pure, too dreadful in its severity of holiness for even angels to approach with unveiled faces; and beneath it long files of white-robed saints, with calm, still faces, with every trace of earthly feeling and passion purged away from their clear stern eyes by the searching purgatory fires. No wonder my dimmed eyes turned away, that my beating heart grew chill. Well might I feel that I, so wholly of the earth, earthy, in every thought, and affection, and feeling, had no part there, no interest, no hope; for between me and those shining heights lay the grave and a gulfto such as I it must be well-nigh an impassable gulf-of searching, devouring fire! I had been thoughtful even from a child, and these things had ever troubled me. At times they were too distressing to dwell upon; and though I attended rigidly to all the forms and ceremonies of religion, and the priests said I was a good and pious girl, the future lay before me dark, dreary, dreadful, veiled in a gloom uncheered by the torch of hope, unbroken by the faintest star-gleams of faith. So my heart turned all its clinging tendrils downwards, and clung to the earth; there was no stay to raise them upwards towards their true resting-place. And, as I said before, it was round Léon they twined with the firmest, strongest hold. On him I had leaned all my trust from my early girlhood, even as my gentle, timid, delicate mother had done. She was formed only to love, and to cling, and to trust; and when my father's death left her alone, she turned to Léon and leant upon him; and at last upon me too. Not that she was wanting in character or judgment-when we were children she ruled us with a gentle firmness that never failed to make itself felt; but then she had my father: and after he was taken, it was rather by the trustful love with which she looked to us elder ones to take-not his place, that could never be-but his part of cheering and supporting her gentle, timid spirit, that we were coutrolled and guided. |