the hurried tale that the old gossip was pouring into the ears of Nannette, who sat in an easy chair propped up by pillows. "Even you would be content if you could see her now, petite; she is a skeleton, ah! bah, but she deserves it," and rushing out to spread the news, she left Madame and her grand-daughter alone.

"What is it, cherie? I was so fatigued, I am scarcely yet awake; who does she say has returned?" "Mathilde, grand-mère."

"Mathilde, ah! the wicked, the shameless one, and she has returned you say; she is here with her father?"

"No, grand-mère, he has sent her away, her and the little bebé."

"There is a bebé, sayst thou; it is well done that Poncet has sent them away; ah! let them die, she has killed you, let them die, I say."

"No, grand-mère, it must not be. Monsieur Poncet will be sorry tomorrow, and so will you; we inust send for Mathilde, and let her stop with us to-night."

"Dame! the little one is mad," called out the old woman angrily; "stay here, ah! I should kill her if she came here."

"Grand-mère," said the girl, with a pitiful attempt to smile, "you ought to thank Mathilde; only for her I should have married Jacques, and then-"

"And then, mon Dieu! ah, yes, after all, the child speaks truly; it is better that the money should have gone, better even that she should die at home than that murderer should have killed heryes, it is true, perhaps, after all, Mathilde can stay here. René," she went on to say, as the young man entered the room with some flowers and fruit he had procured from Paris, "you know what has happened, you have heard that Mathilde has returned?"

"But we do not know where Mathilde is," objected the old woman, hoping still for a loophole to escape.

"René will find her," said Nannette, trustfully; she always seemed to lean on René now. He set out at once, and having made inquiries from passers by, was not long in discovering the poor wanderer, and, bending gently over her, he said, "Mathilde, come with me."

She shuddered. "Where would you take me?" she asked. "I did not steal the money, I am not a thief, as my father says."

"Nannette Le Noir has sent me for you," René answered.

"Ah! I cannot go; my father says I have killed her, that she is dying, I cannot bear her reproach; ab, René, I pray of you, have pity, let us stay here, the poor little

bebé and me."

"Nannette is not angry, Mathilde, she has sent for you, to spend the night with her-you must come, she is indeed dying, and you would not pain her by a refusal-come."

She slowly raised herself, and leaning on René's arm, the poor thin starving trembling creature, crept to the cottage of Madame Le Noir, and sank down at the feet of Nannette.

"Not so, my sister," said the dying girl, gently, and drawing Mathilde toward Mathilde toward her, the two women whose li ad been ruined by Jacques V other.

Meanwhile, notwithstanding his harsh words, the heart of Monsieur Poncet yearned after his daughter; she had deceived him, as he said, she had brought disgrace on his name, and yet he would give all he possessed to take her to his home again; but how could it be done? He had too great pity for Madame Le Noir, too much love for her frail grandchild, to permit him to wound them by allowing his daughter to resume her old position in his house; but-but-if she would only come back again, and ask his forgiveness once more, he was not sure that he would not sell his business, and take her away, where they all might live together, without harming any one. His pride was too strong to allow him to follow her, but she might come back, and Poncet never left the house all the evening, lest he should miss her however, she never came. He passed a sleepless night, and next morning set about his work with still a faint hope in his heart, which leaped up into a sudden flame, when he heard that a woman wished to speak to him; he went to the door himself, but it was only a messenger from Nannette Le Noir begging him to go and see her.

:

Yes," he answered, "tell her I shall go at once. She has heard of Mathilde's return, doubtless," he thought, "and has sent for me to ask me to drive her away; ah! well, she will be satisfied," and his heart grew hard towards Nannette, but melted again when he was brought into the room, where weaker, more ethereal than on the previous day, she lay dressed on the outside of her bed, with a bright flush on her cheek, and an eager light in her eyes.

"You want me, Nannette ?"

"Yes, dear friend, I have not long to stay," she answered; "I want to say adieu, and to beg a favour of you."

"I grant it, Nannette, if you wish me to send Mathilde away."

"It is about Mathilde I would speak, Monsieur," she interrupted, "but not what you think. Will you pardon her?"

He sat down suddenly, overcome with surprise. with surprise. "You ask me that, Nannette, how have you been able to pardon her?"

With white wasted finger she pointed to the crucifix above her head. "Christ suffered thus," she reverently said, "and yet he forgave will you not forgive her, Monsieur?" she implored.

"Ah! how gladly, my child, but I do not know where she is."

"She is here, Monsieur, call her." At Poncet's bidding his daughter came, white and worn, truly, but, oh how different from the wretched beggar girl, who had left his threshold the day before, as in a neat gown and cap, she stood with downcast eyes before her father.

"My child, my child," he said, clasping her in his arms.

When Madame Le Noir came into the room she found that exertion and excitement had brought on the hemorrhage again, and the life blood was flowing in a thin stream from between Nannette's lips. She never rallied, and only spoke now and then in short broken sentences.

"Grand-mère, be kind to Mathilde and little bebé," she would say; "tell Monsieur Trevor I prayed for him when I was dying"-and at about six o'clock she murmured, "Call René, I must bid him goodbye." The poor young man was walking up and down the garden path with drooping head and slow irregular footsteps, and he followed Madame into the room where Nannette lay back on her pillows, with milk white face and half closed eyes, whilst one wasted hand was extended on the coverlit. René bent and kissed it,

"Life of my life, heart of my

heart, cherie, petite," he moaned, "oh! do not leave me."

With feeble fingers she tried to stroke his face. "I was not worthy of thee, René," she faltered; "ah! if I had only known in time, but it is too late adieu, embrace me once, mon ami."

He strove to keep back the groan which was forcing itself from his agonized heart, and pressed his quivering lips on those of his beloved, which were already cold, with the coldness of approaching death; then he sank on his knees by the bedside, and when they went to lead him away they found he had fainted

When next he saw Nannette she lay with spring flowers scattered over her couch, with pale folded hands, and on her dead face the calmness of eternal rest.

The violets have blossomed and faded for many years on the spot where she was buried; other graves may be neglected, but hers never; wreaths of immortelles and bunches of fresh flowers are constantly placed there by loving hands; thither her grandmother, now very old and feeble, comes, leaning on the arm of René, who is ever tender and reverent to her, not only for the sake of the dead past, but also by reason of the true chivalrous heart, which makes a man possessing it, tender and reverent always to old age and infirmity. There Poncet and his daughter spend many a summer evening, and teach Jacques's little son, the bebé of old days, to

hush his childish mirth beside the spot where lies all that can die of Nannette Le Noir.

Mathilde's husband has never been heard of in St. Simon since, but Trevor, when travelling some years ago near Naples was attacked by banditti, who, however, fortunately took to flight, upon the appearance of a large body of mounted travellers in the rear, and feels sure that in the evil, passion-tainted face of the captain of the band he recognized the features of Jacques Veillard.

René's life has been saddened truly by the past, but he still recognizes, as every man worth calling by the name must do, the great truth that be our path here below, not bright, but dark; not safe, and soft with rose leaves, but rough with rocks and beset by enemies; we still must tread it, and that it is nobler to do so, not like cowards shrinking from every hardship, trembling at every danger, sinking powerless under every sorrow, but like brave soldiers, armed and ready, marching to meet the foe, knowing that

"There's a rose in the garden of Heaven,

For the hope that on earth was
betrayed:

There's rest for the soul grief laden
Which hath striven, and waited

and prayed."

-HEYGATE CHELMSBEE,