A sudden dread took possession of Marie, and, seizing the letter with a trembling hand, she cast her eyes on the superscription. One glance was enough. Though years had passed since she saw the handwriting, she knew it directly for her husband's; and, mastering her emotion as well as she was able, returned at once to her apartment to read the unexpected missive. It was of so characteristic a nature, that we feel bound to give it in the original, subjoining a translation. It was thus:

"MA CHERE AMIE, J'arrive de la Californie. Je n'y ai pas fait fortune; au contraire. Les mines que j'ai vues étaient encore plus mauvaises que la mienne, ce qui n'est pas peu dire, attendu que je reviens avec un œil de moins. Je l'ai perdu en défendant ma peau contre un tas de mauvais garnemens qui grouillent dans ce pays-là. J'ai été obligé de travailler à la manoeuvre pour mon passage sur un vaisseau. Enfin, je reviens tout nu comme un petit Saint Jean. Heureusement que tu as mis de côté un petit magot pour ton cher mari. J'ai su ça par quelqu'un qui te surveille, et qui m'a écrit ton nouveau nom et ta nouvelle adresse. Pourquir faire des cachoteries, ma mie, avec de vieux renards comme moi? ça ne sert de rien. Demain je serai chez toi, et nous ferons danser un peu ces pauvres vieux écus, qui doivent bien s'ennuyer depuis que je ne suis pas là.

"TON CHER MARI."*

There was reason for dread in a letter like this. He who had caused her movements to be so closely watched, must have been informed of the loss of her child-his own, too-and knowing this, could address an afflicted mother, and a deserted wife, in a strain of such cruel levity,-the very worst might be augured from his visit; but whatever came of it, Marie resolved this time to endure all rather than swerve one jot from her settled design. She had a sacred duty to fulfil, and all other considerations, compared with it, were as nought. She had need of all her reso

lution to meet the coming trial.

It would have been useless to try to fly from a man who had proved to her how sure were the means he possessed of tracking her steps; besides, she trusted something to the force of the language in which she purposed to appeal to him, if-as she still hoped, notwithstanding all his past conduct-there yet remained in his breast a shadow of the love he had once avowed to her. Calmly, therefore, she prepared herself for the inevitable meeting, and even went so far as to make some little preparation for Vilette's reception, at the same time informing the old portress that it

* "MY DEAR FRIEND,-I have arrived from California, where I did not make my fortune; on the contrary. The aspect of things there" (the calembourg on “mines” is not translatable) "is worse than my own, which is not saying a little, seeing that I have returned minus an eye. I lost it, defending my skin against a lot of bad subjects, who swarm in that country. I have been obliged to work my passage home in the ship that brought me, and make my appearance, quite naked, like a little St. John. Luckily, you have put by a trifle for your dear husband. I learnt this from some one who has had an eye upon you, and sent me your new name and address. Why do you attempt concealment with old foxes like me ?-it's of no use. To-morrow I shall be with you, and we will make those old crowns dance again; they must have been dull enough without me. "YOUR DEAR HUSBAND."

was her husband-the writer of the letter from Havre-whom she expected. The concierge of a garni in Paris sees too many strange things happen every day to be greatly surprised at any event, but on hearing this, old Petronille screwed up her withered features with a look of wonder, as much as to say, "Who would ever have thought that this poor creature had a husband living-and she in such misery." However, she received the directions given to her without reply, though amongst her own gossips afterwards she indemnified herself for her enforced silence.

The same evening a man, whose appearance did no injustice to the description which Vilette had given of himself, came to the loge of Marie's dwelling. He asked for Madame Louvel, and was directed to her apartment.

About two hours afterwards a hasty step was heard descending the stairs, and a hoarse voice called out "cordon," the speaker passing by so rapidly that old Petronille, who was half asleep, hardly got a glimpse of his person as she rose to pull the string. But before he was clear of the porte cochère, he dropped some money on the stones. The familiar sound effectually roused the portress, and she ran out of her loge to pick up. The man, however, appeared to take no heed of his loss, though once, as Petronille called after him, he turned his head, and by the light of a réverbère, which shone full on his face, she saw that he wore a patch over one eye, and then recognised him as the stranger who had inquired for Marie.

it

"An odd sort of husband," she muttered, "to be in such a hurry to run away from a wife-not seen, to my knowledge, for this twelvemonth. Odder still that he wouldn't wait for his money. I should scarcely have thought it had been so plenty with one of his appearance. I'm sure poor Madame Louvel has none to spare. Ah, she seems to think of nothing but that dead child! Money," she continued, rattling together two fivefranc pieces which she had picked up,-"money won't bring back a smile to her sweet face; however, as the husband does not come back for it, I must give it to her the next time I see her."

She was interrupted in her monologue by a little girl, who came running down the staircase calling her by name.

Mère Petronille, mère Petronille !-il y a du mal en haut; montez de suite!"

"What's the matter?" grumbled the old woman; "who sent you ?" "My mother," returned the child; "she has been dreadfully frightened, and so have we all. We are afraid something has happened to Madame Louvel!"

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Petronille; "c't homme-là, son mari, qui vient de la quitter! Ah, montons, montons de suite."

With more agility than might have been expected from her appearance, though she was bent by habit rather than by age, the portress scaled the long flights of stairs, with the little girl clinging to her gown. When she reached the fourth landing-place, her dim lamp revealed to her the pale, anxious face of the mother of the child, and one or two other female neighbours, who lived even higher still. All of them had the same story to tell-a noise in Madame Louvel's apartment, in which the deep tones of a man's voice predominated-then sounds as if a struggle

had taken place, accompanied by supplicating female accents-then one long, piercing cry-the noise of a heavy fall-rapid footsteps-a sharp crack, as of something broken-a door loudly banged, and then silence for a while, till broken by stifled groans.

"Why did you not call for me before?" asked Petronille of the child's

mother.

"Ah, dam!" was the reply; "j'entendions du bruit, c'est vrai; mais, voyez-vous, ça arrive si souvent dans le quartier, on n'y fait pas grand' attention. D'ailleurs, quand on est marié, on s'accoutume à des rixes comme ça. Mais c't enfant a pleuré tant, qu'à la fin j' sommes d'cidée d' sortir; et les voisines ont fait d' même."

"Well," said Petronille, "something, as the child said, must have gone wrong with Madame Louvel; but the door is closed, and the key gone. Listen-what was that?"

All present heard a deep moan.

"Ah!

"We must get into the room," said the active old portress. here comes a man. I suppose I forgot to shut the street-door. A la bonne heure-it is Monsieur Martin, who lives on the troisième."

The presence of the new comer restored the courage of the frightened women; they crowded round him, and repeated their story. In a few minutes, by his assistance, the door of Marie's apartment was forced open, and all the party entered.

A ghastly sight presented itself in the inner room, where the furniture was strewed about in the greatest disorder. There lay the body of poor Marie, her hair dishevelled, her hands cut, her features fearfully mutilated, and a pool of blood beneath her head, which had issued from a wound in her throat. She was, to all appearance, dead. On a close examination, however, it was discovered that she still breathed; but the injuries she had sustained seemed to say that to survive was impossible. They raised the body and placed it on the bed, while a surgeon was sent for in all haste. A medical student-there are many who live in that quartierquickly came. He had skill, and some experience; and after a careful examination, pronounced that Marie might be saved, her wounds, though numerous, being more frightful in appearance than dangerous.

Other aid, when Madame de Frémont heard the distressing news, was added; and by the united care and attention of all-for the young student would not relinquish his services-in the course of a few weeks poor Marie was reclaimed from that bourne whither her hopes had long been tending, and restored to the living world around her.

And with that restoration different thoughts from those she had before cherished arose. On her bed of suffering she sacrificed every selfish feeling within her bosom, and vowed herself henceforward to the service of the sick. On the cruel treatment she had received she preserved an inflexible silence; but none who heard what Petronille had to say, doubted for a moment that it had been inflicted by the man whom Marie had called her husband. All she begged was, that no questions might be asked her on the subject. The commissaire de police of the quartier took up the question, however, on his own account; but he could make nothing of it, most probably because Vilette had too recently returned, and was not to be found in the haunts of the companions who had formerly betrayed him. When Marie was sufficiently recovered to go abroad again, she went

to Monsieur Allaux, who, as we have said, was one of the physicians of the Hôtel Dieu, and announced her intention of becoming a Sister of Charity. Through his means, and the representations of Madame de Frémont, Marie was admitted to the "Congrégation des Sœurs de St. Vincent de Paul;" and amongst that earnest, self-denying community, none were more zealous than Sister Firmine, by which name Marie was in future to be known. Her attendance at the hospital was unremitting, and many a sick man's sufferings were soothed by her tender care.

One day, while she was seated beside the bed of a patient, nearly convalescent, in the Hôtel Dieu, a movement suddenly took place in the ward, occasioned by the arrival of one borne in on a litter. It was a man who, only a few minutes before, had attempted suicide by throwing himself into the Seine from the parapet of the Pont St. Michel, having previously fired a pistol in his mouth. It appeared that he was a repris de justice, hotly pursued by the police, and, finding that escape was no longer possible, had made a twofold effort to balk his captors and rid himself of his life. But he was saved from drowning by one of the boatmen of the Morgue, though brought to the shore apparently in a dying state, from the effects of his wound. He groaned heavily as the litter was borne past the foot of the bed where Sister Firmine was seated; and as she glanced compassionately towards the sufferer, despite his shattered jaw and clay-cold face, bespattered with blood, she recognised her husband!

The shock was a fearful one; but she did not sink beneath the horrible vision, though her frame shook with a strong convulsion to see before her in such guise the man whom she had once so dearly loved, and who had so often and so cruelly wronged her. But her emotion, after the first throe of terror had passed, was all pity; and, falling on her knees, she poured forth a fervent prayer for him who was the cause of all her bitter

woe.

It was soon known throughout the ward that the last comer was in a desperate condition, the lower part of his face being almost destroyed by the explosion of his weapon. At the most, the surgeons said, he could not survive twelve hours.

"Grant for those few hours," petitioned Sister Firmine to the principal surgeon, "that I may remain by the bedside of the dying man!"

Her request, though brief, was too earnestly made to be refused; and throughout that night the convict Vilette was watched over and prayed for by his agonised wife. Delirium tossed his brain; but once she heard her own name uttered.

"Philippe!" she answered. And, the cloud passing from his mind, the wretched man opened his eyes to meet her gaze and know it.

"It is her spirit," he faintly said, with his last breath" it is her spirit. She comes to bar the murderer's way to heaven!"

"It is herself," murmured Marie. "She is here to forgive."

When I had heard this tale, it was no longer necessary to ask why Sister Firmine prayed daily at the shrine of St. Séverin.

A FAREWELL TO 1854.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

Nor lightly but with reverence lay
The old Year in his solemn tomb,
For high events have marked his way-
Events of glory, fear, and gloom.
He joins his myriad fathers dead,

Ring out his knell in yon deep sky!
Calm be his sleep in that dark bed,
The graveyard of eternity!
And Memory watch his ashes well,
While Time and Nature sigh farewell!

Thou Year! though Pestilence and Woe
Have stalked, sad spectres, by thy side,
And Heaven hath dealt on man below
Judgments severe to dash his pride,
Yet, backward glancing, we behold,

Like rainbows starting through the storm,
Like sunset-clouds befringed with gold,
Glimmerings of beauty round thy form.
Eventful Year! long, long must we,
For ill, for good, remember thee.

By the grand trophy Taste and Art
Have dazzling raised on England's soil,
Where deathless genius works his part,
To exalt, refine the sons of toil;
A temple where immortal Mind

May drink in knowledge, glow, expand ;

A temple where all human kind

In peace, in love, may link the hand; By mental feasts, joys pure and free, Dead Year! we will remember thee.

By the strong union knit between

The two great Nations of the worldNations that deadliest foes had been,

Now side by side their flags unfurled; Now honour's road together treading, Hurling down wrong, and, o'er th' oppressed, Magnanimous the buckler spreadingChampions and saviours of the West! Such union Heaven might, smiling, seeBy this, great Year! we'll think of thee!