logne, namely, on our arriving there on the 5th instead of the 6th of August, when we were no more expected to arrive, and people had lost confidence in the reports of the prince's agents. However conflicting, ridiculous, or exaggerated may be the remarks of party spirit, the culminating fact which history will record is that the wonderful career of the prince and his advent to the supreme power was conspicuously affected by two enterprises, which, however wildly conceived, served to keep his name before France, and to stir the popular heart regarding him. Prince Louis Napoleon proved his prophecy to be true: "Farriverai, de chute en chute." JOSEPH ORSI. THE Château Arnaud garden had not kept even as much pretension to be called a garden as the pleasure-grounds around madame's house at La Roquette. There were a few traces of past grandeur, but utility had long since asserted its supremacy over ornament. Stately terraces and parterres had had their spaces invaded year after year by corn, and vines, and lucerne, till there was nothing to distinguish them from the adjoining field, but here and there a flight of broken, lichencrusted, marble steps, or an armless statue, or mutilated fountain-basin, which some flowering gourd, or climbing bean-stalk, was making gay and useful at the same time. Madame de Florimel, in her morning costume, was quite equal to the task of threading her way among the vine and vegetable patches, without any help of gravelled paths, and found amusement enough in prying into their promise of fruitfulness for the summer, but Alma soon grew weary of following and listening. well have been some patched and powdered pre-Revolution beauty, who last, before Alma, sat lazily on that bench in the working hours of a spring morning, waiting for a lazy lover to come to her, and who watched the glowing Judas blossoms overhead, and the green slopes stretching upwards towards a blue sky in front, with as little heed to their beauty as Alma had to give them to-day. She could not understand Wynyard's long delay in coming out to tell her the news which he surely must have learned by this time. A thousand doubts and misgivings tortured her mind, and made that lovely spring morning, the morning after her betrothal to the man she loved, a time of torment instead of joy. Is one never to be quite happy, she kept asking herself is the prospect of success beyond all one's hopes, really worse to bear, because of the deadly anxiety it brings, than disappointment? She had been reading her father's letter aloud to her mother just before she left the house, and its tone of taking for granted that life was going on as usual with them, had worked her up into a state of unreasonable impatience and irritability. It was a long, chatty letter, but there was, from first to last, no allusion in it to Lord Anstice's death, or to Wynyard's changed fortunes. Either her father had not yet heard Constance's news, or he did not believe it, or he passed it over as less likely to affect her and her mother than details about the poor circumstances in which the West children were left by their father's death. Then came the dreaded Kirkman name, and how hard Alma had found it to read aloud the sentence in which it occurred, without faltering or changing countenance ! "I found Horace Kirkman waiting at the house for me when I returned from Saville Street last night. He seemed anxious, and complained bitterly of not having heard anything from any of us for many days. Tell Alma, I think, considering all the circumstances, she ought to write to Mrs. Kirkman, if not to Horace. must at all events not leave the young man on my hands. I have a great deal too much business upon me just now, public and private, to be complicated with a lover's grievances." She Long before Wynyard made his appear- Clearly Alma would get no help from ance outside, she had found out the only her father in extricating herself from her seat the place afforded. A massy-carved difficulties in that quarter, though as she stone bench, under a Judas-tree at the low-remembered, with some bitterness, it was, est point of the garden, where the inevita- more than anything else, a word from him ble château pond still existed and nour- that had led her to involve herself with ished its army of green frogs. It may the Kirkmans. If he had not given his suyport to that intimacy, how much fewer | Madame could not bear to lose her last thorns would be in their paths now! And chance of getting a sympathetic listener yet again, was it possible that Constance's that morning. news might be a mistake after all? Had young Lawrence brought her a hasty report which had received contradiction before her father arrived in London? Were those letters now lying under the cut corks in Madame Mabille's commode merely proofs of some magazine article, about whose mysterious miscarriage she might have to hear conjectures through years to come? Alma saw the meeting between the two, and interpreted all the little signs afforded by their looks and gestures, as they stood talking together, with anxious heart-throbs. Was it an ordinary conversation about the artichokes and the weather that kept them standing face to face so long on the slope of the hill, or was Wynyard telling his cousin that news? They turned at last to come down the hill, talking as they came — and now madame's hand is on Wynyard's arm, and her face has a startled expression, while his is very grave. The nearer they approached the bench the stronger grew Alma's hopes that no ordinary topic occupied them. Ah! they pause again close to the Judastree to shake hands. Madame is looking up at Wynyard with a glance of proud satisfaction that makes Alma's face glow, and changes the fear she has been feeling into a new dread -a dread lest, when the Alma's face and figure stiffened into an attitude of weary despondency as this supposition confirmed itself in her mind by many circumstances of Wynyard's conduct last night and this morning. Her enthusiasm of yesterday, when she had longed to sacrifice everything for love, deserted her when the possibility of being called upon to do so presented itself as close at hand. She could see nothing but irony in the fate which brought her to take the unprosperous lot at the moment when she had forfeited all claim to inward self-supreme moment of hearing comes, as it approval for the choice. She must in this case face the Kirkmans' displeasure, without any gilding of success to blind people's eyes in judging her, and bear her mother's disappointment, unsupported by a sound conscience, or by that free-hearted enjoyment of her lover's gratitude, which might have been hers if she had honestly deserved it. Outwardly and inwardly her prospects looked black every way. She had lost her self-respect, and gained nothing. During a pause in counting her artichokes, Madame de Florimel turned round to look at Alma's motionless figure on the garden seat, and wondered at her apathy. She hardly looked handsome this morning, madame thought, when all animation was banished from her face, and with such an air of indifference, if not of gloom in her attitude. One could no longer feel surprised that she should have a younger sister married before herself, for the sight of one such fit of abstraction would be enough to frighten away from any man the wish to make her his companion for life. With this conclusion, madame was going back to her artichokes when she saw Wynyard come out of the house, and look round the garden as if in search of some one. She Beckoned him to come and join her, and when his eye persistently looked over her head towards the bench at the bottom of the garden, where Alma was seated, she left her spud sticking in the mould, and hastened up the hill to intercept him. must do immediately, she should show too little surprise at the long-expected news, or too much triumph. Scraps of conversation reach her ears when they move on again. "Poor Mrs. Anstice!" madame is saying, "no, Wynyard, I don't forget her grief, though I acknowledge that my first thought was of you. I am myself a mother; I know what her desolation must be. Poor woman! I will not say a single word against your leaving me at once to go to her; and indeed there are other friends whom at such a crisis in your life, you will be anxious to see at once. May I not say, another friend?" But Wynyard's eye had caught Alma's by this time, and he did not wait to hear the end of madame's sentence. He hurried forward, his face glowing with sudden emotion, and taking Alma's hands in both his, he raised her from the seat, so that they stood together before Madame de Florimel. "I have another piece of news to tell you this morning," he began, "of even deeper importance to me than the last, of which Miss Rivers, as yet, knows nothing. You must congratulate me without any reservation this time. Yesterday Miss Rivers and I came to the happy ending of a long wooing, and it is two_betrothed people you see before you this morning. You will give us your blessing before any more is said, won't you?" There was a moment's profound and embarrassing silence, during which an energetic green frog, croaking in blind forgetfulness of the daylight, and a cicala, half way up the Judas-tree, had the throbbing ears of two anxious auditors all to themselves. Then, madame, her keen grey eyes pitilessly fixed on Alma's face, said interrogatively: "And Miss Rivers knows nothing as yet of what you told me, while we were walking down the garden?" "Nothing whatever," said Wynyard. "I did not know it myself till after we parted last night. Pray don't let us frighten her by growing mysterious." He felt Alma's hand tremble and twitch within his own, but he closed his fingers over it and held it firmly, avoiding another look into her face, lest he should increase her agitation, which he tried not to think more overwhelming than the occasion called for. 66 Well, then, I will go back to my artichokes, and leave you to tell what will not frighten her, I am sure. It is not news of that sort which makes young ladies take fright at their betrothal." And you congratulate us," persisted Wynyard. "Come, madame, you are not going to turn crusty with me on the morning when I bring you such tidings as this. You will have to promise to visit us in England now, and look at the place where your primrose roots were dug from. You must bring Joseph Marie to study English farming under my uncle's old tenants." "I am too old for such a journey, and I would not expose either myself or Joseph Marie to ridicule," said madame, shortly. "As for congratulations—yes, Wynyard, I congratulate you as heartily as I can congratulate your mother's son on an engage ment. You must really forgive me if recollections of past times make my manner less cordial than I could wish it to be. In an hour or two, perhaps, by the time Miss Rivers has recovered from the shock you are about to give her, my ideas will have arranged themselves, and I shall be equal to speaking as I ought. Meanwhile, I had better, ungracious as the suggestion may sound, see what can be done to hasten your departure, since you are determined, you say, to start in an hour's time." Madame turned away, and Wynyard led Alma back to the seat under the Judastree, and placed himself by her side. For another minute or two the duet between the green frog and the cicala was the only audible sound in the garden. Wynyard, who had passed his arm round Alma's waist, felt that her heart was beating wildly under his hand, and her agitation affected him with the chill of reserve. He almost dreaded to end the suspense lest her fear should be succeeded by a burst of relief or joy that would jar upon his presen* mood. 66 Why should she," he jealously asked himself, "care so agonizingly for anything beyond what was settled yesterday?" "Well, dearest," he said, at last, "I don't know what keeps us silent, for there is a great deal to be said, and only an hour to say it in. Why won't you look at me this morning? Are you angry with me for leaving you so long alone, or have you partly guessed what I have to tell you? I think madame's talk and manner must have suggested the news to your mind. Can you not guess what has happened?" "No, no," Alma whispered breathlessly; "tell me. I cannot guess. I could not bear to guess." "You are right," he said. "Yes, I should be sorry if you had thought of it. It is too sad and terrible a thing to come lightly into one's mind, and I am forgetting that a few hours have already made it fa miliar to me, so callous, so full of ourselves are we. I think you only saw my cousin, Ralph Anstice, two or three times; the last time was at Constance's wedding. You will be greatly shocked to hear that I have had news of his death. He died quite suddenly, a week ago, and but for our being out of the region of letters, I should have heard sooner. Poor fellow! I wish you had known him better, that you might help me to remember him as affectionately as his kindness for me deserves." There was a long pause. Alma could not bring herself to utter an exclamation of surprise or to ask a question about the manner of that death which had constantly been in her thoughts for four days; and when Wynyard, impatient at last, took her chin between his finger and thumb, and turned her face towards himself, he was surprised to see how white it was, even to the lips. "My darling," he cried, kissing her tenderly, "I did not know that you would feel this so deeply. I ought not to have told you without more preparation. How good and tender-hearted you are, thinking only of the sorrowfulness of this event, and not at all of how it affects ourselves." "No, not so," cried Alma, wrenching her face away from his touch, with a ges ture that was almost fierce. "I wish you would not interpret my feelings for me, I can't bear you to do that; I never could, yet longing to read his thought. Could he have taken in that part of the letter, and yet be so stupid, or so loyal, as not to doubt her in the least? "Well," he said, taking her hand, and smiling in answer to her questioning look, "do we want a fresh introduction to each other, dear, or what? Is an unexpected inheritance such a very alarming thing that you can't recollect anything else about me than that? Not, for instance, that I am going away in an hour, and that it will be a week or two before we shall sit together again?" She colored, and left her hand passive in his, but the anxious expression remained on her face. Difficulty after diffi Lord Anstice's death would surely bring her into, occurred to her busy mind, and crowded out all the tender and loving thoughts that would have been natural to the occasion. "Well," he said, without noticing the word "drowned," which struck him with a stupid surprise that he let pass for the moment, "if you think it reasonable to expect me to remain satisfied with not under-culty, which her previous knowledge of standing your feelings or having any share in them, I will try to go on; or stay, as we seem to have stumbled into a mood of cross-purposes, I will give you young Lawrence's letter to read, and leave you for a little while to think over it alone. I can't keep away long though, for I must start for England in another hour; and surely we have, or ought to have, a great deal to say to each other this morning, Alma. Shall I go and find Lady Rivers; she must be expecting me, and I owe her an explanation for yesterday, don't I?" "Not yet," said Alma; "I have not told her yet. Yes, Wynyard, go away for a little while, and come back when I have read the letter." He turned away from her, walked a few paces beyond the Judas-tree, and crossing his arms on the low stone wall that divided the garden from the next field, he stood for some minutes watching the progress of a string of migratory caterpillars across the grass, determined not to let his mind fasten on any of the particulars of Alma's conduct, so as to stray into suspicion or discontent at her behavior on this first morning of feeling her his own. She had taken him generously when he had little to give, and now that the worldly advantages lay all on his side, it would be churlish indeed to begin reckoning up the more or the less love she was likely to give in return for them. In a shorter time than seemed necessary to read through the letters he had given her, Alma beckoned him back to the seat under the Judas-tree. Lawrence's letter lay folded in her lap, her hands crossed over it. She had only read one sentence, the sentence in which Lawrence mentioned his visit to Constance, and it was with a great effort she now turned a wistful glance at Wynyard's face, dreading, "There are some things that I can't bear," she exclaimed, vehemently, after a long silence. "So long as you don't tell me that I am one- "Wynyard interrupted. She shook her head. "No, no, I am in earnest; you must let me speak." "And you must let me say first that from to-day you shall never, if I can help it, have anything to do with these unbeara ble things, unless indeed," he added, playfully, "I am one of them, which I shall begin to think, if you won't look at me." 66 "No, no-oh, Wynyard, it is hard enough for me to say this without looking. What I feel I can't bear this morning is the being left here with mamma after you are gone, to hear all that Madame de Florimel will say about our engagement, and my mother's talk when this news is broken to her. How little Madame de Florimel and she will understand each other! How grieved I should be if madame should guess the difference that — " "Poor Ralph's death makes in your mother's estimation of me as a son-in-law, in fact," said Wynyard, concluding the sentence over which she hesitated. "You must not blame poor mamma for that." "And I do not, dearest. It is very natural, and you may depend on my burying all recollection of old slights, and taking the future complaisance, I suppose I may reckon on, in good part, for your sake. You have made all that easy to me. While I have the recollection of our yesterday's walk by the river to prove that you took ing wildly under his hand, and her agitation affected him with the chill of reserve. He almost dreaded to end the suspense lest her fear should be succeeded by a burst of relief or joy that would jar upon his presen mood. embarrassing silence, during which an en- | Alma's waist, felt that her heart was beatergetic green frog, croaking in blind forgetfulness of the daylight, and a cicala, half way up the Judas-tree, had the throbbing ears of two anxious auditors all to themselves. Then, madame, her keen grey eyes pitilessly fixed on Alma's face, said interrogatively: "And Miss Rivers knows nothing as yet of what you told me, while we were walking down the garden?" "Nothing whatever," said Wynyard. "I did not know it myself till after we parted last night. Pray don't let us frighten her by growing mysterious." He felt Alma's hand tremble and twitch within his own, but he closed his fingers over it and held it firmly, avoiding another look into her face, lest he should increase her agitation, which he tried not to think more overwhelming than the occasion called for. Well, then, I will go back to my artichokes, and leave you to tell what will not frighten her, I am sure. It is not news of that sort which makes young ladies take fright at their betrothal." And you congratulate us," persisted Wynyard. "Come, madame, you are not going to turn crusty with me on the morning when I bring you such tidings as this. You will have to promise to visit us in England now, and look at the place where your primrose roots were dug from. You must bring Joseph Marie to study English farming under my uncle's old tenants." "I am too old for such a journey, and I would not expose either myself or Joseph Marie to ridicule," said madame, shortly. "As for congratulations—yes, Wynyard, I congratulate you as heartily as I can congratulate your mother's son on an engagement. You must really forgive me if recollections of past times make my manner less cordial than I could wish it to be. In an hour or two, perhaps, by the time Miss Rivers has recovered from the shock you are about to give her, my ideas will have arranged themselves, and I shall be equal to speaking as I ought. Meanwhile, I had better, ungracious as the suggestion may sound, see what can be done to hasten your departure, since you are determined, you say, to start in an hour's time." Madame turned away, and Wynyard led Alma back to the seat under the Judastree, and placed himself by her side. For another minute or two the duet between the green frog and the cicala was the only audible sound in the garden. Wynyard, who had passed his arm round "Why should she," he jealously asked himself, "care so agonizingly for anything beyond what was settled yesterday?" "Well, dearest," he said, at last, "I don't know what keeps us silent, for there is a great deal to be said, and only an hour to say it in. Why won't you look at me this morning? Are you angry with me for leaving you so long alone, or have you partly guessed what I have to tell you? I think madame's talk and manner must have suggested the news to your mind. Can you not guess what has happened?" "No, no," Alma whispered breathlessly; "tell me. I cannot guess. I could not bear to guess.' "You are right," he said. "Yes, I should be sorry if you had thought of it. It is too sad and terrible a thing to come lightly into one's mind, and I am forgetting that a few hours have already made it fa miliar to me, so callous, so full of ourselves are we. I think you only saw my cousin, Ralph Anstice, two or three times; the last time was at Constance's wedding. You will be greatly shocked to hear that I have had news of his death. He died quite suddenly, a week ago, and but for our being out of the region of letters, I should have heard sooner. Poor fellow! I wish you had known him better, that you might help me to remember him as affectionately as his kindness for me deserves." There was a long pause. Alma could not bring herself to utter an exclamation of surprise or to ask a question about the manner of that death which had constantly been in her thoughts for four days; and when Wynyard, impatient at last, took her chin between his finger and thumb, and turned her face towards himself, he was surprised to see how white it was, even to the lips. "My darling," he cried, kissing her tenderly, "I did not know that you would feel this so deeply. I ought not to have told you without more preparation. How good and tender-hearted you are, thinking only of the sorrowfulness of this event, and not at all of how it affects ourselves." "No, not so," cried Alma, wrenching her face away from his touch, with a gesture that was almost fierce. "I wish you would not interpret my feelings for me. I can't bear you to do that; I never could, |