CHAPTER IX.

WHY need we longer delay the conclusion of our story, since the reader already anticipates the result of Perrine's noble deeds, and Marie's constant love?

The exploits of the newly made knight, during the short period which elapsed before the conclusion of a general amnesty between France and England, his daring at Amiens, and before the walls of Calais, and the proud name his valor won, removed every obstacle which had opposed the consummation of the lovers' hopes. A peasant no more, but a knight, who had purchased the patent of his nobility by chivalrous deeds, his claim to the hand of her he loved was no longer barred by the strict usages of the times; and in becoming its possessor, he not only vindicated the truth of the maxim, that nobleness of soul always meets its own rewards, but that, though it exists in one of low degree, like the diamond, surrounded in its native state by base materials, it still shines through its outer covering, a light to "give the world assurance of a man."

TO MY ANGEL-BABE.

BY JAMES HUNGERFORD.

"Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”—Matt. xix. 14.

My darling babe! thou 'rt gone from us-no more my eyes shall

trace

Thy mother's cherished likeness in thy lovely infant face;

That mother's name was thine on earth; and I, by whom 't was

given,

Will think by that beloved name thou 'It still be known in heaven.

Last given taken first away, and most prepared to go-
Yet all untimely seemed thy doom, and early came the blow,
And sad it is, the form, we nursed so gently night and day,
Should have for bed the lonely grave, for covering the clay.

In All-Saints* ancient church-yard is thy small and humble grave,
"Round which five slender cedars their funeral foliage wave,
The spot those evergreens enclose, though erst regarded not,
Has now become of all the earth to me the holiest spot.

Seven weeks we watched beside thee, through each weary day and night,

And saw thy thin cheek thinner grow thy dark eye pale its light; And still we fondly cherished hope until the very last,

Nor thought that thou could'st die, until we knew thy life was

past.

*Calvert county, Md.

But when, beloved one! thou hadst drawn thy last and feeble

breath,

And I saw thy lovely face assume the marble hue of death, What words can tell the rush of grief, awhile beyond control, That poured an overwhelming tide upon my anguished soul!

Yet, thanks to Heaven's mercy!-e'en while bending 'neath the blow,

I murmured not at the decree, which laid my infant low;

I knew, though then I saw it not, that there was kindness still, And humbly said" the Lord is good-be done his holy will!"

The Lord is good, and though I still in pain must linger on,
I know that thou art happy in the land where thou hast gone;
And, though a soul that loveth is from earth forever riven,
Yet surely it is sweeter to be loved by one in heaven.

My angel-babe! when suffering from passions or from care,
I walk aside and muse of thee, and think that thou art near;
That thought is to my wounded heart most soothing of all balms,
And stills the tumult of my soul, as oil the waters calms.

My sins are many, and life a troubled tide doth seem,

my

But, since thy death, a chrystal wave has mingled with its stream, And may that clear and heavenly wave still widen as it goes, Until the river of my life all purely, calmly flows.

And thou wilt, through their varied life, be near thy lov'd ones

still,

And be to them an angel-guard to shield their souls from illOh! to thy gentle minist'rings a blessing e'er be given,

That at the last we all may meet—a family in heaven.

DEATH OF A CHILD.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

THE death of a child, to those in no way connected with it either by relationship or daily intercourse, is a thing of little moment a circumstance scarce noted; but how different is such an event to those who have grown familiar with the little prattler; to those who have begun to listen, even in memory, for the music of its happy voice.

In the family where I once resided, was a dear child who had won his way into every heart. Ten of us there were-but of these, six only claimed relationship-the rest of us were strangers and sojourners. But words cannot tell how dear to us was that sweet child. He was our playmate when in the house, and claimed many of our most pleasant thoughts when we were away. The father and mother were very happy in the possession of such a treasure, and though sensible persons, found it almost impossible to restrain even tiresome expressions of fondness for, and interest in, their little one.

He was just three years old, when he was suddenly taken with symptoms of that terrible disease, the croup. In the silent midnight his parents were startled from their sleep by his loud and difficult breathing. A hot bath was immediately prepared, and antimonial wine administered, but to no good purpose; and, ere dawn, an experienced physician had been summoned to the house. No relief could be obtained, however, for many hours,

and that relief was but a slight abatement of the alarming symptoms. But little was eaten by any at the breakfast table next morning. Concern and anxiety were upon every face. How all was changed since the day before! Then we were happy with our little playmate-now we spoke low and ominous words. together, and stole about softly, as if we feared to wake a sleeper.

When we again assembled at the dinner hour, hope had not yet dawned upon the hearts of the anxious parents. One by one we gathered in the sick chamber to look upon our pleasant companion, now struggling with pain, and subdued by sickness. For a moment his eye would brighten as each familiar face bent over him, but it would soon settle into an appealing look, as if he asked our aid in his extremity.

How ardently did we long to bestow that aid, and how humbled in spirit were we, as we turned away from his bed side, feeling as though his rebuke went with us for not rescuing him from the hands of his tormentor.

The day wore on heavily with each one of us who was absent on business, and at last the evening came.

"How is little Willie?" I asked, eagerly, of his mother, who was the first that met me as I entered. She looked at me a moment before she spoke, evidently struggling to keep down her feelings, and then said, mournfully, and with wet eyes :—

"He is no better."

Softly I entered the chamber, the stillness of which was broken only by the loud, quick, labored breathing of the child. How changed was our little friend! The rose of health had faded from his cheek-the gladness from his young, bright eye. Nor was he suffering from the violence of the disease alone. Powerful medicines had prostrated his system, without expelling the malady, and a large blister had burnt the skin from his breast without moving the spoiler from his vigorous hold. I whispered his name as I bent over him, but he heard me not—I spoke in a louder tone, but he heeded not my voice. Even to his mother's