Volume 18 — THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XVIII., No. 106.—JANUARY, 1874.[138] (continued 2)

If I relate all these little anecdotes at length, it is to show you Jeannet's good heart; and without speaking ill of little Jeannette, who had also her fine points, I think her brother surpassed her in delicate attention to their parents, which I attribute to the difference in their education. Believe me, it is always better to let a cabbage remain a cabbage, and never attempt to graft a melon upon it. You will make nothing worth eating; for the good God, who created the cabbage on one side, and the melon on the other, likes each to remain in its place, without which you will have a hybrid vegetable, which will not really be of either species.

Pierrette, like a true woman, knowing Jeannet's excellence, often thought he could make some woman very happy, and that it was her duty to speak to him of marriage, since he was twenty years old, and they knew he would never have to enter the army, even though he should draw the fatal number. One evening, when she was spinning beside the hearth, with Jean-Louis near her, making a net for catching birds, she commenced to speak of the happiness of her married life, the blessings she had received from heaven, and her perfect contentment on all points. Jean-Louis listened with pleasure, and acknowledged that a happy marriage was something to be envied, but, according to his custom, never thinking of himself, he did not dream of wishing this fine destiny might one day be his.

"And you, my Jean, would you not like to marry?"

Jean-Louis dropped his shuttle, and looked at Pierrette with astonishment.

"What an idea!" said he. "I have never even thought of it, dear mother."

"It is nevertheless very simple, my son. Ragaud was your age when he married me, and, when his parents asked him the same question, he thought it right, and instantly replied, yes!"

"Doubtless he knew you, and even loved you; then I could easily understand it."

"That is true," replied Pierrette, slightly blushing; "for a year before, the dear man had cast glances at me on Sundays at High Mass; at least, he told me so after we were engaged. Why don't you do likewise?"

"For that, I should be obliged to think of some of the girls around us, and I have never troubled myself about them yet."

"That is queer," said Pierrette innocently. "You are not like other men; for without showing particular attention, it is allowable to look at the girls around when one wishes to be established."

"Bah!" said Jeannet; "but I don't care about anything of the kind. When I am in the village on Sunday, I have something else to think about."

"About what, dear boy?"

"Well, then, I think that we will all be quiet at Muiceron until evening, and I hasten to return, so as to sit down near you, as I am now, and laugh and talk to amuse you; and I don't wish any other pleasure. Besides, it is the only time in the week when we can see Jeannette; and, to speak the truth, dear mother, I would not give that up for all the marriages in the world."

"All very well," replied Pierrette; "but without giving up those pleasures, you can take a wife."

"Oh!" said Jeannet, "I see that you are tired of me, or else you would not speak thus."

"What do you say?" replied Pierrette, kissing him on the forehead. "It is not right to speak so, and surely you do not mean it. On the contrary, whether you marry or remain single, I never wish you to leave me. There is room enough for another woman, and even for children. What I proposed, my Jean, was for your happiness, and nothing else."

"Well, then, dear mother, let me remain as I am; I never can be happier than now."

"But when we come to die, it will be so sad to leave you alone!"

Jeannet started up, and leaned against the mantel. A clap of thunder at the time would not have astonished him more than such a speech. He to be left alone in the world, no longer to have his father and mother beside him! And nevertheless it was something to be anticipated; but his life flowed on so smoothly and happily, the thought of such a misfortune had never before struck terror to his heart.

He remained silent a moment, looking fixedly at the bright wood fire that burned upon the hearth; and suddenly, as it often happens when some remark has penetrated the very soul, he saw, as in a picture, his dear good mother Pierrette and father Ragaud stretched on their biers, and laid in the cold ground, in the dread repose of death that never awakens. But, no! it was not possible; and yet it happens any day, sometimes for one, sometimes for another. Muiceron, where they all lived in tranquil happiness, was truly a paradise on earth, but most assuredly not the celestial paradise where immortality alone exists.

For the first time since the memorable day when he had suffered so cruelly on learning the secret of his birth, Jeannet felt his poor heart ache with a similar grief. Pierrette, who thought it perfectly natural to have opened his eyes to such a desirable event, continued her spinning. Seeing Jean-Louis in deep thought, and receiving no answer, she simply fancied her argument had been conclusive, and that he felt the necessity of establishing himself, and so was debating in his own mind the relative attractions of the girls in the neighborhood. Besides, Jeannet's back was to her, and she did not see the change in his face.

"Think a little," said she, pursuing her idea; "there is no greater pleasure for parents who feel themselves growing old than to see their children well married. Then they can die in peace, thinking that, after they are gone, nothing will be changed; only, instead of the old people, young ones will take their place, the work will go on, all hearts will be happy, and kind prayers and fond recollections will follow them to the tomb."

"Oh!" cried Jean-Louis, covering his face with his hands, "if you say another word, I will die!"

"What!" said Pierrette, "die—of what? Are you ill?"

Jeannet, in spite of his twenty years, burst into tears like a little child; he clasped Pierrette in his arms, fondly embraced her, and said in a tone melting with tenderness:

"My mother, my dear, dear mother, I shall never marry—never, do you hear? And I beg of you never to mention the subject again. I have but one heart, and that I have given you undivided; nothing remains for another. When you speak of marriage, it makes us think of death and the grave; and that is beyond my strength—I cannot speak of it. If the good God calls you before me, my dearest mother, it will not be long before I rejoin you; and thus it will be better for me to die single than to leave a family after me. And now, as I do not wish to marry, and you only desire my happiness, do not urge me further."

"Your heart is too gentle for a man," said Pierrette, feeling the tears of her dear child on her brow; "you make me happy, even while opposing me, and I see that I have made you unhappy without wishing it. Be consoled, my Jeannet; we will never speak of it again. If you change your mind, you will tell me. Meanwhile, we will live as before. Don't be worried; it will be a long time yet before we leave you. I am in good health, and your father also; and so Muiceron will not change masters soon."

"No, no, thank God!" cried Jean-Louis; "the Blessed Virgin will watch over us. We have not lived together for twenty years now to separate, my darling mother!"

Truth to say, this was not very sound argument, for, whether twenty years together, or thirty, or forty, friends must separate, all the same, at the appointed hour; but Jeannet spoke with his heart torn with sorrow, and Pierrette was perfectly willing to acknowledge, in her turn, that she really desired things should happen as he wished.

From that time the question of marriage was put in her pocket, and never taken out again. God and his holy angels looked down with delight upon this innocent household, full of tenderness and kindness, and did not allow evil to overshadow it. However, the child Jeannette deserved to be cured of her little sins of vanity, and you will see the means taken by the Heavenly Father to make her a Christian according to his will.

XI.

About this time came a year which is still remembered, although a good long time has since elapsed. Swarms of locusts devoured the young wheat before it ripened, while the field-mice, moles, and other villanous pests, gnawed and destroyed it at the roots. Corn especially suffered in this unlucky season; not a plant escaped. Before it had grown ten feet in height, it was blighted, and then withered and died. It would take too long to enumerate all the difficulties that overwhelmed the peasants. Hailstorms beat down the meadows at haymaking time; splendid cows died of the pest; sheep were suddenly attacked and perished; and as for the horses, decimated by the glanders, which became epidemic, and was very dangerous, as it often passed from animals to men, it would be impossible to count the victims.

This year, at least, those who had begun the season by prophesying evil had their predictions fully accomplished; but, thank God! such an unfortunate season rarely happens. The poor people were fearfully discouraged; and, in sooth, it was not strange that men dreaded the future, in face of such a present.

Nevertheless, greater activity was never seen in the fields. To save the little that remained, each one did his best, even down to the little children, in reaping, gathering the harvest, piling the carts, in spite of the locusts, the hail, and the devil, who was said to have a great deal to do with the affair, and which I am very much inclined to believe. The people even worked until late in the night. It was a devouring fever, which made every one half crazy, and it was a miracle that no one died of it; for, in our province, we are accustomed to work slowly, without hurry or excitement, and it is commonly believed everything happens when and how it is decreed, but none the worse on that account; but I wish to prove that they could hurry up when occasion required.

Our friend, Jean-Louis, did wonders in these sad circumstances. He seemed to be everywhere at once—in the fields, the stables, at the head of the reapers, at the barn when the carts were unloaded; encouraging some, urging on others, in a friendly way; hurrying up the cattle; when necessary, giving a helping hand to the veterinary surgeon; and, withal, gentle and kind to everybody.

You think that, with order, energy, and intelligence, work will always be rewarded with success. He who first said, "Help yourself, and Heaven will aid you," did not speak falsely. God does not work miracles for those who fold their arms in idleness, but he always gives to humble and persevering labor such abundant reward that, for many centuries, no matter what may be the suffering, the truth of the Holy Scriptures has always been verified, that "never has any one seen the just man die of hunger, or his seed begging their bread."

In virtue of this rule, it came to pass that, at Muiceron, the harvest of hay, as well as of wheat, rye, and corn, was far better than could have been expected by the most sanguine. The unfortunate ones, who lost nearly all their crops, said that Ragaud had dealt in witchcraft to protect himself from the prevailing bad luck. This nonsense made every one laugh, but did not stop their envy and jealousy; and so unjust do men become, when their hearts are envenomed by rage and disappointment, that some of the worst—the laziest, undoubtedly—went so far as to declare openly, in the village inn, that it would be for the good of the public if some of the splendid hay-stacks at Muiceron were burned, as the contrast was too great between the well-kept farm and the ruined fields around.

Fortunately, our friend, Jacques Michou, was drinking in a corner while this delightful conversation took place; he rose from his seat, and, placing his hand on the shoulder of him who had been the loudest in threats, declared he would instantly complain of him to the police; and that, merely for speaking in such a manner, he could be sent to prison for a month. No further grumbling was heard after this speech, and it can be easily understood no wicked attempt was made. So true is it that a little courage will easily defeat the most wicked plans; for vice is very cowardly in its nature.

While all the country around Val-Saint, Ordonniers, and many other neighborhoods, were thus afflicted, M. le Marquis had been busy with some of his grand affairs, of which we have already heard, and started on a journey for some unknown place. He returned this time a little happier than usual, as it was near the beginning of 1847; and it is not necessary to remind you that it preceded 1848. At this time even the stupidest felt that a revolution was approaching, and our good lord and all his friends were doubly certain of the impending storm. He was therefore excusable in having neglected the care of his large estate, so as to devote himself to that which was the first desire of his heart. But he who should have watched over his interests in his absence, the superintendent Riponin, he it was that was every way blamable; for, whether intentionally, that he might continue his orgies in the midst of disorder, or through idleness and negligence, he had allowed the place to fall into a fearful state of ruin. Nothing was to be seen but fields devastated by the ruin, or grain rotting as it stood; the animals that died had not been replaced; and even the vegetable garden of the château presented a most lamentable picture of disorder and neglect. Ragaud and Michou, had seen all this; but they were too insignificant to dare say a word, and too proud, besides, to venture a remonstrance, which certainly would not have been received.

M. le Marquis, on his return, was anything but agreeably surprised. He summoned Riponin before him, and reprimanded him in a manner which he long remembered. Our master was goodness itself, but he could not be unreasonably imposed upon; his old noble blood would fire up, and he could show men that for more than five hundred years his ancestors, as well as he, had been accustomed to command and obey only the laws of the Lord God.

Riponin was a coward; he trembled and asked pardon, promised to do better, and gave a hundred poor excuses. M. le Marquis would not receive any such explanation; he ordered Riponin out of his presence, and seasoned the command with several big military words, which I will not repeat. It was a sign that he was terribly angry. Thus the unfaithful steward was obliged to retire without further reply; and, between ourselves, it was the best he could do.

Thereupon M. le Marquis, still in a fury, sent off for Ragaud, who came in great haste, easily divining what had happened.

"Ragaud," said the master, "you are no better than the rest. I will lose forty thousand francs on my crops; and if you had seen to it, this would not have happened."

"Forty thousand francs!" quietly replied Ragaud. "I beg your pardon, M. le Marquis; but you mean sixty thousand francs, and that, I think, is the lowest calculation."

M. le Marquis was naturally cheerful; this unexpected answer made him smile, instead of increasing his anger. He looked at his old servant, whom he highly esteemed, and, folding his arms, said:

"Is that your opinion? Come, now, let us say fifty thousand; I think that is enough."

"No, no, sixty," replied Ragaud. "I will not take off a crown; but there is yet time to save half."

"Is that so? What can I give you, if you do that much?"

"Nothing, M. le Marquis, but permission to be master here for a week, and the honor of serving you."

"Old fool!" said the marquis. "And your own work, what will become of it?"

"It is all finished," replied the good farmer; "don't be uneasy, my dear master, only give me, as I said before, full power."

"Be off, then. I know your devotion, and I have full confidence in you; but you will not object to my making a present to your children?"

"Presents!" said Ragaud, much moved. "What else have you done for the past twenty years, M. le Marquis? Is it not the least you can do to let me be of some use to you for once in my life? I owe everything to you, down to the roof that shelters me, my wife, and the children. Presents! No, no, if you do not wish to pain me."

"Proud and obstinate man that you are," said the marquis, smiling, "have everything your own way. I am not so proud as you; you offer to save me thirty thousand francs, and I don't make such a fuss about accepting it. Isn't that a present?"

"It is thirty thousand francs that I will prevent you from losing," said the obstinate Ragaud.

"Yes, as though one would say grape-juice was not the juice of the grape," replied the marquis, who was highly amused at the replies of his old servant. "Well, if I ask you to drink a glass of old Bordeaux with me, will you take that as the offer of a present you must refuse?"

"Certainly not," said Ragaud, "but it is too great an honor for me to drink with my lord."

M. le Marquis made them bring refreshments on a silver waiter, and kept Ragaud in close conversation for a full hour, knowing well that this friendly manner of treating him was the greatest reward he could give the good, honest soul, to whom God had given sentiments far above his condition. Afterwards, he dismissed him with such a warm shake of the hand that Ragaud was nearly overcome and could scarcely restrain his tears.

"Well," said he, returning to Muiceron, where he found Jean-Louis occupied with arranging the wood-pile, "what do you think we are going to do, my boy, after having worked like ten men to get in our crops and fill the barns?"

"I was thinking about that," replied Jeannet; "and, meanwhile, I have put the fagots in order, so that mother can easily get at them, when I am not at hand, to make the fire."

"You have never thought to take a little rest?" asked Ragaud, who knew well beforehand what would be the reply.

"Why, yes," said Jean-Louis, "an hour's rest now and then is very pleasant; but after that, my dear father," he continued, laughing, "I like to stretch my legs."

"Well, then, let us imagine nothing was done at Muiceron, and that, at this very moment, we should be obliged to begin; what would you say?"

"All right; and I would instantly begin the work. I hope you don't doubt me?" he replied, with his usual air of quiet resolution.

"No, I do not doubt you, my good boy," resumed Ragaud; "and to prove my confidence in your courage and good-will, I have to-day promised to undertake an enterprise which, in honor, we are bound to accomplish."

And he related to him what we already know.

"Hum!" said Jean-Louis, after having listened attentively; "it will be pretty hard work, but with the help of God nothing is impossible."

"That is just what I think," replied Ragaud; "but for that, I would not have undertaken such a task. Now, Jeannet, we must begin to put the place in order to-morrow at the latest."

"That will be time enough, father, and we will do our best," said Jean-Louis.

The subject was dropped for the rest of the evening. Ragaud did not trouble his head about the means his son would employ; and Jeannet, without being otherwise sure of himself, remained tranquil, like all those who ask the assistance of divine Providence in the management of their affairs. Nevertheless, it was a difficult task, not only on account of the severe manual labor, but also from the certainty of incurring the deadly hatred of Riponin, who was a very wicked man. The thought of it somewhat disquieted Ragaud, and Jean-Louis from the first understood the full danger; but what could be done? Duty before everything.

The next morning Jean-Louis was up before sunrise. During the night, he thought over his plan, like the general of an army; he remembered having read somewhere that a troop can do nothing, unless conducted by able chiefs. He would need one hundred hands, and, for one all alone, that would be a great many. His first care was to knock at the window of a fine young man of his own age, who, from infancy, had been his most intimate friend. He was called Pierre Luguet, and lived in the hamlet of Luchonières, which is a small cluster of twelve or fifteen houses a little lower down than Ordonniers, but on the other side of La Range. By good fortune, the stream at this place is so choked up with a big heap of gravel and old stumps of willow-trees, which serve as stepping-stones across the water, that any one who is light-footed can cross as easily as on a narrow bridge.

This name of Luguet, I suppose, strikes your ear oddly. He was really the nephew of poor Catharine, and thus first cousin of Jean-Louis, who undoubtedly knew it, as you can imagine. Perhaps it was the reason these two young men were so much attached. They say the voice of blood cannot be smothered; and although it is not always true, in this case it was very evident that, whether for that reason or simply from similarity of character and pursuits, good conduct and age, Pierre Luguet was the only one of the neighborhood whom Jeannet ever sought, and that Pierre was never happier than when he could detain Jean-Louis for several hours in conversation or some innocent amusement.

Jean-Louis went straight to the house of his friend, who, recognizing his voice behind the shutter, quickly opened it and let him in. He lived in a little room in front of the farm-buildings, and, consequently, the noise did not awaken his parents. Jeannet entered by the window, and, without losing any time, explained his plans to Pierre, while he rapidly dressed.

"You," said he, "must be my lieutenant. We must get together one hundred young men, each one resolved to do his part. M. le Marquis will not begrudge the crowns; we will promise them good wages, and they must work all night, if necessary; and, to encourage every one, we will keep a roaring fire in Michou's house, so that Barbette will always have the soup warm and a tun of cider ready for tapping. In this manner the laborers will be contented, and not obliged to return home twice a-day for their meals. As for you, Pierre, be assured that M. le Marquis will reward you most generously for your work; and, besides, you will be doing a good action, for it is a great sin to see the estate of the master worse cared for than that of his servants."

"I am not thinking about the price," said Pierre Luguet, putting on his blouse. "I ask no more than you will have."

"That is good; we will see about it," replied Jeannet, laughing in his sleeve; for he knew well that he was going to work for the honor of it, and he did not wish to make Pierre go by the same rule, knowing that he supported his old parents.

They decided upon the places where they would expect to find the best men, and separated, one to the left, the other to the right, promising to meet again at twelve o'clock.

There was really great rejoicing when the young men of Val-Saint and Ordonniers learned that they were required to work for M. le Marquis under the lead of the two best men of the neighborhood. They had nothing to fear from brutality and injustice, as in the time of Riponin; and the news of his disgrace put all the brave fellows in the best humor.

Riponin was cordially detested, and for double the pay not one would have volunteered to serve under him, or have undertaken such a disagreeable and bungled affair; but with Jeannet it was another thing, and although he warned them beforehand that he would allow neither idleness nor bad language, and that they must work long and steadily, they followed him, singing as joyously as though they were going to a wedding.

Before noon, the two bands met on the edge of the wood, where dwelt our old friend, the game-keeper. Pierre Luguet, after leaving home, had taken care to pass by, so as to forewarn him. Jacques Michou threw up his cap at the news; he also despised Riponin, and, more than any other, he had good reason for hating him. He therefore laid his plans, and borrowed from the château a huge kettle, such as is used during the vintage for pressing the grapes, which he put up, for their service, in his little barn. Everything was ready at the appointed hour, and I can assure you the delightful surprise was fully appreciated by our young friends. The two leaders had taken the precaution to tell each one of the boys to bring half a loaf of bread, a piece of goat's cheese, and a slice of pork; so the soup was doubly welcome, as it was not expected, and the cider still more so, as they had counted only on the river-water. This good beginning put them in splendid humor; and when, after being fully refreshed, they marched up to the château to pay their respects to M. le Marquis before beginning their work, one would have said, from the noise and singing, that it was a band of conscripts who had drawn the lucky number.

They instantly put their shoulders to the plough. Jeannet wisely made them commence with the worst fields, so that, when the first excitement was over, and they would be rather fatigued, they could find that they had not eaten the white bread first. Thus, having been well selected, well fed, well paid, and, above all, well led, our boys did wonders, not only that afternoon, but on the following days. The weather, however, was decidedly against them; rain drenched the laborers, and strong winds prevented them from building up the hay-stacks; but their ardor was so great that nothing discouraged them; and often, when Jeannet, moved by sympathy, put it to vote whether they should continue or not, he saw with pleasure that not one man deserted his post.

At the end of a week, half the work was so well under way it could easily be seen that, in spite of the bad season and worse management, M. le Marquis would not lose all his crops this time, but that, on the contrary, his barns would make a very good show, if not in quality, at least in quantity. The worthy gentleman came several times himself to visit the laborers and distribute extra pay. On these occasions it was admirable to see the modesty of Jean-Louis, who always managed to disappear, leaving to Pierre Luguet the honor of showing the progress of the work to M. le Marquis; and as workmen are generally just when they are not found fault with, brow-beaten, or ill-treated, they rendered to Jean-Louis greater honor and respect the more he concealed himself from their applause. In short, everything went on well to the end without interruption.

The given fortnight was not over when the last cart-load, ornamented on top with a huge bouquet of flowers and sheaves of wheat tied with ribbons, was conducted in triumph, accompanied with songs of joy, under the windows of mademoiselle, who appeared on the balcony, with Jeannette Ragaud on her right and Dame Berthe on the left. M. le Marquis was in the court of honor, enchanted with the success of the measure; and Ragaud and Michou could not remain quiet, but clapped their hands, and cried "Bravo!" to the brave young men.

Jean-Louis tried to escape this time also, but was not allowed. His friends raised him in their arms, and placed him on top of the cart with his good comrade, Pierre Luguet; and thus they made their appearance, both standing alongside of the bouquet, Jeannet crimson with shame and vexation, whilst Pierre sang loud enough to crack his throat.

You can imagine that this cart, upon which had been heaped the last gleanings of the harvest, was piled up immensely high, so that the top was on a level with the first floor of the château, and mademoiselle could thus converse at her ease with the young men.

She spoke most graciously to Jean-Louis, and congratulated him with words so complimentary that the poor fellow wished himself under the grain, rather than on top. What embarrassed him still further was to see his sister Jeannette playing the part of great lady as much as her mistress. With his usual good sense, he considered it out of place, and would have been much better pleased if she had appeared ill at ease in her false position; but, far from that, she leaned over the balcony, laughing and talking like a vain little parrot, and even rallied Jean-Louis on his subdued manner.

He did not wish to spoil the affair by looking severe and discontented, but he was grieved at heart, and hastened to put an end to the scene.

Mademoiselle, at the close of her complimentary remarks, presented each of the two friends with a little box of the same size, wrapped in beautiful paper, and tied with pink ribbon.

"They are filled with bonbons," said she in her sweet, gentle voice; "and you will not refuse to eat them in remembrance of me?"

Then she made them a most friendly bow, which they returned with great respect, and the big cart was driven off to the barn to be unloaded.

"Bon-bons!" said Pierre to Jeannet, taking out his box after they had descended from their high post of honor. "What do you think, Jean-Louis? It seems to me this plaything is too heavy only to contain candies."

"At any rate," replied Jean-Louis, "they can't do us any harm, as the boxes are not very large."

They quickly untied the pretty pink ribbon, and found in Pierre's box fifteen bright twenty-franc pieces, while Jeannet's contained a beautiful gold watch, with a chain of equal value.

To add to the general happiness, the sky, which until then had been cloudy as though threatening rain, suddenly cleared, and the sun went down in the full splendor of August, and shed a brilliant light over the bare fields, as Jean-Louis was carried in triumph by his comrades, who cried out that surely he controlled the weather, as the very winds seemed to obey him; and, strange as it may appear, the season continued so fine that never was there a more delightful autumn than after the unfortunate spring and summer.

If I dared express my opinion, I would tell you that, without calling it miraculous, the good God scarcely ever fails to send joy after sorrow, peace after war, heat after cold, as much to the visible things of the earth as to the secret ones of the heart. It is, therefore, well not to throw the handle too quickly after the axe; and, to prove this, I will tell you a short and true story, which I just happen to remember.

It relates to Michel Levrot, of the commune of Saint-Ouaire, who, against everybody's advice, married a woman from near Bichérieux. She was a bad Christian and totally unworthy of the good little man, who was rather too gentle and weak in character. For a year they got along so-so, without any great disturbance; but gradually the wicked creature grew to despise her poor husband, for no other reason but that he was too good for her, and let her have her own way completely. She wasted money at fairs, bought more fine clothes and silver jewelry than she knew what to do with, kept up a row in the house from morning until night, and ended by being nearly always drunk; all which made Michel Levrot so unhappy that one sad day in a moment of despair, without stopping to think of his eternal salvation, he threw himself headlong into the river Coussiau, which, fortunately, was not so deep as La Range, although nearly as wide.

As he was out of his head, and acted without thinking, his good angel most assuredly took care of him; for, if he had been drowned, he certainly would have lost his soul; but, although he did not know how to swim, he floated on his back, and the current carried him to the bank of the stream, where he was picked up, half-dead and in a swoon, by some of the neighbors, who rubbed and warmed him, and managed to bring him back to life. Those who had saved him were good, pious men, who spoke to him in such a Christian manner, they made him feel ashamed of his cowardice and want of confidence in the Heavenly Father; so he promised to go and see our curé, who lifted him upon his beast—that is to say, made peace enter his soul; after which he explained to him that, having no children, he had the right to leave this wicked and perverse woman, who deserved a severe lesson, and not return home until she should be converted or dead.

He left that part of the country, entirely cured of his desire to kill himself, and made the tour of France, honestly earning his bread by working at his trade, which was that of an upholsterer. From time to time the neighbors sent him news of his abominable wife, who led such a scandalous life it was easy to predict she would not make old bones; for, if strong drink and vice soon kill the most robust men, they are still more fatal to women. After a few years, he received the welcome intelligence that his house was rid of its baneful mistress. He then returned to Saint-Ouaire, and was charitable enough to give fifty francs for Masses for the unfortunate soul. Some time after, he married the daughter of Pierre Rufin, a good worker and housekeeper, who, besides other excellent qualities, never drank anything stronger than honey and water that she took for a weak stomach, which she had from childhood. They lived most happily, and had a family of five handsome children. I knew him when he was very old, and he always loved to relate this story of his youth, never failing to return thanks to the good God, who had saved him from drowning.

"For," said he, "my dear children, if I had been drowned that day from want of a little patience, I should have lost my soul, besides the good wife you see here and all my present happiness."

TO BE CONTINUED.

ORDINANDUS.

November, 1870.

ONE CHAPTER FROM HESTER HALLAM'S LIFE.

"Ah! Hester, Hester, keep back your tears. Be the brave little wife and woman now. Have faith, hope, and courage; the year will soon speed by, and, lo! here shall I find you again! God grant it! And good-by, my wife, my children—my all and only treasures."

They are engraven on my memory—these last words of Henry Hallam, my husband, my beloved. They were spoken hopefully, cheerfully, though I knew they were intended to cover the sorrow of a heart that ached, even as did mine, at our final parting.

Henry Hallam was to go to South America as chief engineer of a proposed road from some inland city to the Pacific. After a marriage of eight years, this was our first separation. I never did consent to it. Better poverty and the humblest life together than that mountains and seas should divide us, I argued.

But Henry was proud, as he was tender and loving; he could not bear to see his wife, delicately reared, doing menial service; nor his little girls deprived of waxen dolls, because they would usurp the ragged dollar that must go for bread.

Our situation had fallen from bad to worse; an expensive lawsuit had been decided against us, to liquidate the cost of which an out-West piece of land, that was to have been our children's fortune, had to be sold at a sacrifice; and when all was paid, except our scanty furniture, we had but three hundred dollars in the world. We lived in a rented house in the beautiful suburbs of Brooklyn; three months' rent would consume our all. Meantime, upon what should we live, and wherewithal should we be clothed? This was a serious question, which vexed my husband for many days. He suddenly answered it by accepting with alacrity this lucrative position in South America. My only living relative in all America was one sister, widowed and childless. She came from the West to abide with me during my husband's absence. She, too, had comparative poverty for her dowry, her only income arising from the interest of less than a thousand dollars.

No thought of poverty haunted us, however; heretofore all our wants had been supplied, and we had lived almost luxuriously, counting upon the fortune which had been for six years dwindling to less and less in courts of law.

It was with no dread of poverty, I repeat, that I saw my husband take his departure. I thought only how the light had gone from our house, and joy from existence. I am distressed whenever I read of the ever-recurring matrimonial quarrels and divorces which appear now the order of the day. I could have lived with Henry Hallam through the countless eternal years, and—God forgive me!—desired no other heaven.

We had no particular creed or faith. The Hallams had been Methodists; the Griffeths, my father's family over in Wales, had been members of the Church of England.

Henry and I, reading here and there indifferently, had become somewhat inclined to Swedenborg's theories. We read Dr. Bushnell and his colleagues with some faith and more interest. But we fashioned the great hereafter—the heaven we all talk of and dream so much of—after our own ideals. Those may have been in the right, thought we, from whom Shelley and many another poetical dreamer imbibed the idea that the Godhead was but the universal spirit pervading and animating nature; that man was immortal, and was to arise from the dead, clothed in purity and beauty, and was to wander endlessly in some limitless, enchanting paradise, where should be all things lovely to charm the eye, all sounds to entrance the ear, all spirits gentle, and wise, and good for communion of intellect and heart. In this heaven stood no stately throne upon which sat a God of justice, receiving one unto life, banishing another unto everlasting perdition. It was the same here as upon earth; the beauty, bloom, fragrance, and glory were permeated with an essence subtle, invisible, intangible, but present, the life and source of all—and this was God! The ancients had a heaven and a hell, which Christianity had adopted; but we lived in the XIXth century, and we need not pin our faith to such notions borrowed from the heathen. Were youth and health on earth immortal, we would prefer never to pass through the iron gate of death and the pearly gate of life; since, however, all must yield to the inexorable fiat, and all men must die, we would make a virtue of necessity, and be willing to go to that sensual heaven, which wore all the beauty of earth, with naught of its thorns and blight. Ah! we, Henry and I, were still in the glow of youth and hope; life seemed a beautiful vista, and the end far off! Of the great beyond we but carelessly dreamed—as carelessly as if our feet were never there to stand, nor our souls to tremble upon its awful brink.

With Henry gone, I was like a child bereft of its mother. I wept and would not be comforted. I counted the hours of every day; they seemed so inconsiderable, deducted from the almost nine thousand which the three hundred and sixty-five days yielded. I see now how foolish, weak, and wicked I was!

I was seized with a slow fever, which lasted me through the summer. In my weakness and wakefulness I saw visions and dreamed dreams which haunted me constantly. I began to fancy that I was to die. I would have been satisfied to have fallen in a sleep that should have known no waking until the dread year was over.

Early in September I heard from my room an unusual bustle in the house—the feet of men, and the unwonted sound of boxes or trunks laid heavily upon the floor. But why need I go into details?

Henry Hallam had died of yellow fever, and his trunks had been sent home!

In my despair, one thought overpowered me. I had made myself wretched counting over the hours until Henry should return. Now he would never, never come back, no matter how many hours; I might count for an eternity, and he would not come at the end. Oh! could he but some time come, even in the distant years, when his step was feeble and his hair was gray, how patient I would be, how hopeful, cheerful, in the waiting for that certain time!

Why had I not been happy when I knew that he still lived; when the fond hope was mine that, after a few months, I should again behold him?

We never know—alas! we never know! With my beloved gone, I fancied myself sunk in the lowest depth of desolation.

More than two years elapsed. My sister struggled bravely to keep a roof above our heads and the wolf of hunger from our door. Notwithstanding her closest economy, untiring industry, and fertile ingenuity, her small principal had become reduced one-half. Her zeal and energy were a reproach to me, and I had already commenced heroic endeavors to imitate and assist her. We might still have done well, educated my two little girls, and taken comfort in each other, now that my hopeless grief had become partially assuaged, and I had begun to take an interest in the management of our affairs. A fresh grief, however, was in store for me. Maria, my sister, upon whom alone I had come to depend, was stricken with an incurable disease, and, after lingering through months of pain, which often amounted to torture, died, and was buried.

I was not allowed to remain in my stupor of grief after I had beheld the cruel grave close over my only sister. The fact that but a trifle remained after all expenses had been paid aroused me to most painful apprehensions for the fate of my children. But for them I fully believe I should have adopted the advice of his friends to Job, the patient—curse God, and die!

The dear little children, however, who had no friends but their unhappy mother, and who clung to me as if they had in me all that was sufficient and all the world, were an incentive to further endurance and fresh exertion.

In a moment of discouragement and gloom I wrote an unaccustomed letter of six pages to a lady who had been my friend while sojourning in the West. I had spent a year with my husband in a growing village upon the banks of the Mississippi where this lady resided. She had a delightful home in the midst of charming grounds, an indulgent, devoted husband, three lovely children, with wealth enough to command the desirable and good things of this world. We had corresponded for a time, but since my great affliction I had written no letters.

Without delay came Mrs. Bell's reply. In my selfish grief I had not thought that upon others also might be falling showers of the self-same woe. The thought of Mrs. Bell, with her happy surroundings, had formed a pleasant picture, comforting to dwell upon. Ah! how my eyes filled and my heart throbbed as I read her letter!

The beautiful home, with its pictures, books, its nameless household gods, was in ashes; the husband, really the handsomest, most elegant gentleman I have ever met, full of health, vigor, and cheerfulness, a year after the fatal fire had died suddenly, leaving his large property in an involved and unavailable condition; and my friend was living in a small cottage amidst the ashes and blackened trunks of trees—which stood like weird spectres about her former home. The letter, half read, fell from my nerveless grasp, and I clasped tightly my trembling hands, bowing down upon them my throbbing head, murmuring:

"Doth all of beauty fade to blight, and all of joy to gloom? Are all human loves so vain and transient? Are all hopes and dreams fleeting and unsubstantial as the goodly shadow of a summer cloud? Is it true of all beneath the sun, 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust'?" Gathering courage to finish the letter, another surprise awaited me. My friend had become a Roman Catholic. After giving brief details of her conversion, she thus addressed me:

"At this moment I feel more sorrow for you than for myself. My dearest earthly loves and hopes lie, like yours, in ashes. But out of my desolation hath sprung the green branches of heavenly peace. I weep not unavailing tears at the loss of what so charmed my heart as to separate my soul from God. Arise out of the ashes watered with your tears. Go to the nearest Catholic priest; ask him for books, counsel, and prayer that shall lead you upward and onward toward the kingdom of rest. Make the effort, I entreat you, in the name of God. If you find no peace to your soul, what will you have lost? If you find comfort and rest, will not all have been gained?"

Had I learned, in the midst of my happiness, that Miriam Bell had become a Catholic, I might have wondered, thought strange of it, but set it down as one of the unaccountable things, and not puzzled my brain by studying into it. But now it was different. Her afflictions, so similar to my own, brought her very near to me in sympathy. I would have as soon thought of myself becoming deluded by the snares of Popery as my friend, Mrs. Bell. Yea, sooner; she was more matter-of-fact, calm, philosophical, more highly educated, with a mind more thoroughly disciplined, and naturally more inquiring and comprehensive than my own. And she had heartily embraced this religious faith which, without ever having bestowed much thought upon, I had naturally regarded as one of superstitions and lies.

The sun went down, the twilight fell. Charlotte and Cora helped themselves to a slice of bread, and lay down to rest. The sewing-machine had for hours been idle, and the unfinished white shirt, suspended by the needle, looked like a ghost in the gathering gloom; and still I held my hands and deeply thought, or walked the floor with stilly tread.

And so Miriam Bell had found a balm for her sorrow, a light amid her darkness. How? By becoming a Catholic. And what was it to become a Catholic? To believe impossibilities, and to worship idols; to behold, in a tiny wafer of human manufacture, the body and blood, soul and divinity, of an incarnate God? Does Miriam Bell believe this? If she can believe it with all her heart and soul, then might she well be comforted! To fall upon one's knees before the relics of a saint, and beg his prayers, as if he could see and hear? To implore the Blessed Virgin to succor and defend, as if she were not a creature, but omnipotent and divine? To reverence the priest as a being immaculate, an angel with hidden wings walking upon earth, unto whose feet you must kneel, and unveil, as unto God, all the thoughts and interests of your heart? I pondered over this last suggestion. Standing in the white moonlight that silvered a space of the floor, I lifted up both weary heart and waiting hands, and, with eyes toward the unknown and infinite, I cried:

"Unto God would I pour forth the sins and sorrows of my soul; but I am all unworthy. He whom I have disregarded and failed to acknowledge is shut out from my vision and approach. Between him and me is the thick wall of my offences. Oh! if, in his infinite mercy, he could send forth one little less than an angel—who should have something of the human, that he might compassionate and pity; of the divine, that he might comprehend, guide, and assist—to that one I might yield in reverence. All the sins, and follies, and rebellions of my life should be poured into his ear; perhaps, oh! perhaps the hand of such an one might lift me into the light, if light there be indeed for soul so dyed as mine."

How this fancied being, uniting the human and angelic, became gradually, and by slow degrees, associated in my mind with the Catholic priest, I know not. Certain only I am that, after a few days of mental struggle, of resolve and counter-resolution, I complied with my friend's entreaty, and, accompanied by my little girls, sought the nearest priest.

I took this step not with faith, nor yet altogether with doubt. I went, not willingly, but as if irresistibly impelled. I was like one shipwrecked—floating in maddened waters, threatened death below, an angry sky above, and darkness everywhere. A friend in whom I trusted had pointed out to me a life-preserver.

"Stretch forth thy hand, hold it fast; it will save thee," she had said.

"It is but a straw," I murmured, clutching at it, drowning.

The priest entered the parlor a few moments after our admission by a domestic.

I scanned him narrowly as he walked straight up to us, rubbing one hand against the other, slightly elevating his shoulders. He was a middle-aged man, whose benevolent countenance wore the reflection of a happy, cheerful soul at peace with God and man.

My first thought on viewing him was of the woman who wished but to "touch the hem of our Saviour's garment"; and, when he uttered his first salutation: "And what can I do for you, my child?" I said involuntarily: "Oh! that I may be made whole."

"Ah! you would go to confession. Go into the church, and pray before the altar; I will be there presently." And he turned to leave the room.

I did not speak nor move. At the door he said:

"You are a stranger in the city?"

"No—yes—that is, I have lived here several years, but I have no friends; I am indeed a stranger."

"You understand and attend to your religious duties?"

"I have no religious duties; I have no particular religion. I am beginning to think myself a heathen."

"And have you not been brought up a Catholic?" he questioned in surprise, returning to where I still sat.

"The furthest from it. If you have time to listen, I will tell you what has brought me to you." And I went on to tell him of the advice of my friend, received in the depth of my afflictions and despair. If my conversion to the Catholic faith, entire, absolute, blessed, thanks be to God! was not instantaneous; if, being blind, I received not sight, being deaf, I received not hearing, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, as did those whom Christ himself touched and healed, still do I believe it to have been the work of Almighty God, and marvellous unto my own eyes. If God commissioned Miriam Bell, instead of his own holy angel, to direct me to the priest of his own anointing, I believe myself no less to have been sent to pious F. Corrigan than was Paul sent to Annanias, or Cornelius to Simon.

From regrets and lamentations, from dulness and despair, my heart bowed low unto God in rejoicing and thanksgiving.

Aside from this, the Catholic religion and the history of the church became to me an attractive, fascinating study. I seemed philosophizing with sages, praying with religious, meditating with saints. The whole world seemed newly peopled, unnumbered voices joining in that grand chant that the church for almost nineteen centuries hath sung: "Glory be unto God, and on earth peace to men of good-will."

F. Corrigan had sent a young priest to a new town in the interior, made by the opening up of new railroads. Here F. McDevitt had built a small church, and, in his report to his superior, spoke of having need of a teacher for a parish school. F. Corrigan offered me the situation, and in one week I was at Dillon's Station.

On the first day of our arrival, F. McDevitt asked my eldest little girl her name.

"Charlotte Griffeth Hallam," she replied promptly.

"Charlotte Griffeth?" he repeated; then turning to me:

"And for whom was she named?"

"For my mother," I replied.

"And is your mother living?"

"She died in my infancy."

"She must have been the person advertised." And taking a slip of paper from his memorandum-book, handed it me.

It was an advertisement for Charlotte Griffeth or her heirs in America, to whom an estate in Wales had descended, valued at one hundred thousand pounds! And what interest had this possessed for F. McDevitt? His brother had a short time previously married a Miss Griffeth, and it was to send in a letter to his brother that he had extracted from the paper this brief paragraph. Was not this too much? I closed my eyes to keep back the tears, and pressed my hand against my side, to still the tumultuous throbbings of my heart.

God! my God! so long time from me hidden, giving me now the true faith, and then this unexpected fortune! What should I do with it? A few months before, I would have purchased a splendid house, perfect in all its appointments. I would have gathered about me all that would have pleased the taste and gratified the senses.

Now was it thrown in my way as a temptation? Before the sun had set upon this wondrous change of fortune, my decision was formed. I would go on in the way I had intended. It had evidently been God's way chosen for me, and I would follow in it. I would go into a temporary cabin, and teach the children of the Irish laborers.

The fortune should be divided into three shares. My children should have two; the third, which was mine, should go to build a home for widows and orphans.

And I? Every morning, with my troop of little girls and boys, I go to the holy sacrifice of the Mass, where adoration is perpetually blended with thanksgiving—the latter one of the deepest emotions of my heart. I never expected to be so content and happy in this world.

Through thee I have found, O God! that "thou art the fountain of all good, the height of life, and the depth of wisdom. Unto thee do I lift up mine eyes; in thee, O my God! Father of mercies, do I put my trust.

"Bless and sanctify my soul with heavenly benediction, that it may be made thy holy habitation and the seat of thy eternal glory; and let nothing be found in the temple of thy divinity that may offend the eyes of thy majesty!"

AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS STORY.

I.

The winter wind is howling over the bleak moor, and Christmas is ushered in with a sore famine that has already made many a hearth desolate. The stout-hearted folk of Yorkshire have borne it well up to this, but the recurrence of the especial festival of good cheer makes their lot seem harder in December than it did two months before. On these Northern moors are scattered many Catholics, whose family traditions point to unknown martyrs as their ancestors, and whose honest pride in their forefathers is as strong as that of the descendants of the cavalier families. But though there may be famine and wretchedness on the moor, there is a worse squalor in the town. There no helping hand comes from the "Hall," bearing relief and consolation; the hovels and tall, crazy tenements are full to the brim of unknown human misery; and, for the poor, Christmas this year means little less than starvation. Those were not the days of subscription-lists, benefit societies, soup-kitchens, and clothing-clubs; spiritual and temporal relief were both scarcer than they are now, and the wars of the previous twenty years had made people button their pockets tight and repeat the axiom that "charity begins at home."

Through the manufacturing town of Weston, on a chill Christmas eve in the early part of this century, walked a thoughtful, almost middle-aged man, wrapped in a rich furred cloak, and preceded by a youth bearing a lantern. He had first left the town-hall, where he had assisted at a political meeting, and heard a few pompous speeches hung upon the scantiest may-pole of facts. While these worthies had been declaiming, thought he, how many poor men, out of employment, uncared for by their pastors, must have been murmuring or swearing at their ill-luck and the apathy of their superiors! How many might be driven to crime or suicide by their wretched circumstances! He had heard that the Dissenters helped their poor rather more effectually than the "church" people did; and, luckily, in a manufacturing population there were always plenty of Dissenters! The Catholics, too, about whose "emancipation" there had been so much said lately in the Whig meetings, were generally a charitable set, and there were more of them in the North than anywhere else in the kingdom; but they were mostly country people, and the great houses had enough to do to support their own village poor. Could not something be done on a generous scale by the talkative municipality of the town? Should he suggest something to that effect? But he was only a visitor and traveller, and had but little interest with the magnates of Weston. General knowledge there was none at that time; and it mattered nothing to the local authorities here that he had travelled in the East, was a professor of ancient history in a French university, and corresponded with half the savants of Europe. To the insular mind of a trading community, he was a mere nameless atom of humanity, whose doings only concerned Weston as far as the paying of his reckoning at the inn, and his consumption of the most costly items that the scarcity of the times rendered a fair source of profit to the landlord.

As he was sunk in these half-derisive thoughts, he was suddenly accosted by a man, whose figure, as far as the light of the lantern revealed it, was the very reverse of a highwayman. He had a pistol, however, and held it threateningly to the gentleman's heart. In a hollow, unsteady voice he quickly asked:

"Sir, hand me your money; you know what I can do, if you refuse, and I see you are unarmed."

The man's manner contrasted strangely with his present occupation. He was no experienced robber, that was evident; and his eyes rolled from side to side like those of a hunted animal. Our friend, who called himself Prof. John Stamyn, very quietly replied:

"My good friend, you have come to the wrong man. You will have no great booty from me. I have only three guineas about me, which are not worth a scuffle; so much good may you do with them. But you are in a bad way."

The man did not answer or recriminate. Hanging his head and lowering his pistol (an useless weapon enough, since the trigger was broken off and the barrel was cracked), he took the money offered him, and moved quickly away. Mr. Stamyn stood looking thoughtfully after him, then he said to the youth:

"Mind, James, and watch that man carefully, that he may not be aware of you; but be careful to see him housed, and bring me word of everything." And shaking his head, as if in pity, he walked back alone to his hotel.

Meanwhile, the boy, proud of his mission, cautiously started on his pursuit of the seeming robber. Many a time he had to darken his lantern with his cloak, or flatten himself against doors, as the man he pursued turned round, glancing fearfully behind, and then, mending his pace, hurried on again with unsteady footsteps. Once he paused before a large, brightly lighted shop. Loaves and cakes of all shapes were piled in the window; but behind the counter sat two resolute-looking men, whose expression, as they gazed on the hungry face outside, was certainly the reverse of encouraging. The poor wayfarer turned away with a sigh, and dived down a side street. Squalid little booths alternated with equally squalid dwelling-houses along the sides of the alley, and grim, fierce, animal faces gathered in evil-looking clusters round the doors. The poor wretch hastened on; apparently none knew him, as the boy, who followed him, noticed that no one paid any attention to him. At last he stopped at a baker's shop—a dirty place, very different from the respectable one he had looked into so wistfully before. The boy waited at a convenient distance, and, by skilfully shading his lantern, remained there unperceived. There was no light, save what came from the shop—a dull flare at best. After a few minutes, the man came out, carrying a large brown loaf of the cheapest kind that was then sold in Weston. He now entered another street, and turned various corners, so that it was like threading a labyrinth to follow him. The youth then saw him disappear in the door-way of a tall, dilapidated house. The door was open, and hung awry from one rusty hinge; a nauseous smell greeted the nostrils, and shrill, disagreeable voices were heard in some up-stairs roost. The man began to scale the rickety steps, one or two of which were missing here and there, and made a break-neck gap for the undoing of careless climbers. Each landing-place seemed more disreputable than the last, until the fourth was reached. It required a good deal of ingenuity in Mr. Stamyn's messenger to creep unperceived up these dangerous ladders, never startling the man he followed, and, above all, never helping himself along by the tell-tale light, whose radiance might have betrayed him. At last the poor "robber" entered a room, bare of any apology for furniture, and unlighted, save by the frosty rays of the moon. The wind whistled through it, crevices in the wall there were plenty, and not one pane of glass in the grimy window was whole. The boy crouched outside, and listened. A crevice allowed him to see a woman and four children coiled up in a heap, trying to keep each other warm. The man threw the loaf on the floor, and a sort of gurgle rose to welcome him. Bursting into tears, he cried, in a voice half-defiant, half-choked with grief:

"There, eat your fill; that's the dearest loaf I ever bought. I have robbed a gentleman of three guineas; so let us husband them well, and let me have no more teasings; for sooner or later these doings must bring me to the gallows, and all to satisfy your clamors!"

Here the wife mingled her lamentations with his, and the hungry children set up a howl of sympathy, all the while eying the loaf impatiently. The poor woman, whimpering faintly, broke off four large portions, and distributed them among the starving little ones, reserving smaller pieces for herself and her wretched husband, who was leaning despairingly on the window-sill.

When hunger was a little appeased, the group sat together as before, trying to keep each other warm by the contact of their frozen limbs, and drawing over their feet the few rags of clothing they possessed. At last the man broke out into sobs:

"God forgive me! wife, this cannot go on. This money weighs like lead in my pocket."

"Dear," said the woman timidly, "I heard a priest say once that a starving man might take a loaf out of a baker's shop to stay his hunger, and do no sin."

"Ay," said the man gloomily, "if the baker would let him take it. But he would have put me in jail if I'd done it. I'd as lief go to jail as not, if it wasn't for you here; but I thought that would not do, and I know a gentleman is less likely to make a fuss, and Jim's pistol did the business; but hang me if I'll do it again, if we do have to starve for it."

The listener outside took up his lantern. "So the man's a Catholic," he wondered. "I heard master say the Catholics helped each other; anyhow, I'll go home, and report about what I've seen."

Cautiously he got down the dangerous stairs, and looked well about him, that he might know the landmarks of the region again. He reached the inn about an hour after Mr. Stamyn, who was sitting in his room, waiting anxiously for him. He told his tale, not forgetting to make much of his own dexterity in following the poor "robber." His master listened attentively, then gave orders to the boy to call him at six the next morning, when he would follow him to the man's dwelling. The morning was clear, frosty, and bright. The dawn was just breaking, and, if the town could look peaceful at any time, it did then. On the way, or, rather, in the immediate neighborhood of the poor man's abode, Mr. Stamyn stopped to inquire what the man was who lived in such a chamber with a wife and four children. He was told that he was a shoemaker, a very good kind of a man, very industrious, and a neat workman; but being burdened with a family, and the times being so bad, he had fallen out of work, and had a hard struggle to live.

The two then climbed the stairs, Which were hardly safer in the morning's uncertain light than they had seemed in the dark the night before, and stopped before the shoemaker's door.

They knocked, and the crazy door was opened by the unfortunate man himself. He no sooner perceived who his visitor was, than he dreaded to learn the motive of the visit, which must surely be the speedy punishment of last night's robbery. He threw himself at the feet of Mr. Stamyn, saying in a broken voice:

"O sir! indeed it was the first time, as it will be the last, that ever I touch what does not belong to me; but I was drove to it by my poor children here. Two days had they been without bread, sir, and they cried that pitiful I couldn't stand it no longer. I was ashamed to beg, sir, and folk mostly say no to a story as looks so like a ready-made one. Surely, sir, you won't go to punish me, ... and these poor things dependin' on me? I swear I'll die sooner than do such a thing again. It was against the grain I did it, sir; indeed it was."

Mr. Stamyn had taken up the youngest child in his arms, and was hushing its cries.

"No, my poor fellow, it was not to reproach or punish you I came. I have not the least intention of doing you any harm. You have a good character among your neighbors; but you must expect to be quickly cut short in such freedoms as you took with me. Hold your hand; here's thirty guineas for you to buy leather. Live close, and set your children a commendable example; and to put you further out of temptation with such unbecoming doings, as you are a neat workman (they tell me) and I am not particularly hurried, make for me and this boy two pairs of shoes each, which he shall call upon you for."

The poor man, dumfounded and almost in tears, stood before his benefactor, gazing at him and at the shining coins in his own open hand. The wife cried softly to herself, and the children, growing accustomed to the stranger, began swarming about his legs. Mr. Stamyn's servant then laid down a good-sized basket, and took off the lid. The children rushed to this new attraction, and began diving into the recesses of the basket with their poor, skinny little hands. The woman went up to Mr. Stamyn:

"Oh! sir, we'll bless you to our dying day. And never fear; my husband is a good workman, and he will work night and day with a will to make you the finest pair of shoes that ever was.... And, oh! sir, the children shall pray for you, that God may reward what you've done for a poor, starving family. No; my husband, he never stole before in his life, sir."

Here the husband, recovering his powers of speech, joined in, and rained blessings on his kind patron, who left the miserable place in a far more cheerful frame of mind than he had enjoyed at the great meeting last night. Just before he left Weston, the shoes were brought to him by the wife and her eldest child, who loaded him again with the most grateful blessings, and promised to pray that, if he were not a Catholic, still God would "grant him grace to save his soul."

Mr. Stamyn smiled sadly, and bade his new friends good-by, having learnt their name, and promised in return never to forget it, should he happen to be in Weston again. Christmas had been a happy season with him this year; and though, by his present to the poor shoemaker, he had curtailed his own pleasure-jaunt, he felt that, after all, he had chosen the better part....

II.

It was Christmas once more. Forty years had come and gone, and prosperity reigned in the North of England. A famine worse than that early one had swept over the land—a famine of work and cotton—but even the traces of that dire misfortune had gone now, and mills and factories were as busy as they could be.

In the neighboring county of Cumberland, in a retired little town, agricultural and pacific, stood a pretty, old-fashioned house, half-mansion, half-cottage. One side, with its dignified portal of granite, faced the street; but its garden, with bow-windows and porches jutting out among the flowers, almost leaned on the mountain. The family room looked into the snow-covered garden; the deep windows were embowered in ivy, bearing a fringe of tiny icicles, while inside wreaths of holly hung festooned over the dark curtains. Over the large and very high mantel-piece, where a fox's brush and head mingled with the branching antlers of the red deer, there hung a framed device, illuminated in mediæval letters: "Peace on earth to men of good will"; above the door was a large bunch of mistletoe.

The window was partly open, the huge fire warming the room quite enough to allow of this; on the sill was scattered a feast of bread-crumbs steeped in milk, at which two or three robins were pecking industriously.

This was the mayor's house. He was an old man of seventy-five, universally respected for his incorruptible honesty and his steady, reliable character. He had been born in the town, but had left it while yet a baby in arms, had then returned a grown man and father of a family, gone into trade, become a successful business man, and seven years ago retired honorably into private life. Of his sons, one was a mill-owner near Manchester, one had succeeded to his father's local business and factory, and one, his youngest, had died at sea, leaving a little girl, his only child, to the care of its grandparents. The old man's only daughter was a nun in a Carmelite convent in the South of France.

No one but the mayor, his wife, and grandchild lived in this cosey house, and a very happy household it was. The girl had been partly brought up abroad, and had acquired many graceful foreign traits as a set-off to her English complexion and somewhat hoidenish manners. She was the apple of their eye to the old couple, who let her rule them and the house like a young empress. The mayor was nothing but a great baby in her hands, and people knew that the surest way to his heart or his purse was through that saucy little beauty, Philippa Mason. Strangers passing through the town used to marvel how it was that a Catholic had been elected mayor; but they were assailed by such a torrent of eulogies on "the best, most generous, most public-spirited, most conscientious of our citizens" that they were glad to take all for granted, and applaud the choice of the freemen of Carthwaite without further explanation.

One other inmate of the mayor's house will be found worthy of notice—old Armstrong, or Uncle Jim, as he was mostly called. Verging upon sixty, he was still tall, slight, and erect in stature; his manners had some degree of refinement, and he was wont at times to hint mysteriously at his former connection with the gentlefolk of the land. Everybody liked him and laughed at him. He was the most good-humored and the most unlucky of mortals. He spoke loftily of the fortune he lost in his youth through cards and wine; and every one knew that when Mr. Mason, twenty years before, had kindly set him up in a small business of his own, he had not waited six months before he owned himself a bankrupt. Not a stain was on his character, but everything he touched seemed doomed. Money oozed through his fingers like water, while there was no visible cause for it; and the poorer he became, the merrier he was. At last, he had taken refuge with Mr. Mason, and become a part of his establishment. No one knew or inquired about his origin; people were glad enough to let the character of his patron vouch for the respectability of the harmless, amusing, kind-hearted old oddity.

As these four sat in the study (for so Philippa would have her favorite room called), they discussed their plans for the ensuing festival week.

"Uncle Jim has been invaluable," said the girl; "he has been my head-carpenter for the stage in the school, and has made such a grotto for the crib, and, above all, he has carved two wonderful alms-dishes for the collection to-morrow morning."

"Thank God! the church is to be opened to-morrow, wife," said the mayor, seeking his wife's hand. "I may not live to see another Christmas nor hear another midnight Mass. In our young days, we little thought we should see such things—when priests would ride forty miles to a dying bed, booted and spurred, with pistols to fight the highwaymen. Why, even in town, it was as much as we could do to get to our duty at Easter every year."

"Grandpapa," said Philippa, "by next summer the spire will be finished, and we can have the banner of the cross floating there, as of old the city standard used to fly over the cathedrals."

"Child," answered Mr. Mason, "by next summer your bridal train may set the bells of the church a-ringing; and if I live to see that, I'll ask no more of Heaven."

"Nobody knows where to look for the bridegroom yet," said Philippa saucily.

"Hush!" put in the grandmother. "On the day when God gave his own Son to the world, and gave to your grandfather and me such a great blessing—years ago—no one must speak lightly of the gifts he may yet please to send or no." After a pause, Uncle Jim said hesitatingly:

"The good Lord certainly feeds the sparrows, as the Bible says, and I suppose that's why Miss Mason, she must feed the robins, just to follow the path we're told to; but it seems to me, if I'd waited for Him to feed me one day that I well remember, I'd have gone hungrier than you ever did, master, in the days of your trouble."

Philippa looked up with an expectant smile; she always anticipated fun when the old man adopted the mock-serious tone.

"Yes," continued the narrator, pleased to have at least the encouragement of an indulgent silence extended to him; "and I was prancing in the best blue broadcloth and the most shining buttons you ever saw, and had on beautiful new boots that I never paid for ..."

"You rascal!" softly said the mayor.

"And a hat with such a curly brim," continued Jim imperturbably. "Well, it was in the summer, the only time I really was hungry—I don't mean the summer, but that that occasion was the only one when I was nigh starving—and I and two friends, who had helped me to empty my purse, were at Bath. None of us had any money left; in fact, they never had of their own, but were of those whose tongue is their fortune; but hungry we all were, and must have something to eat. 'I have it!' I cried, for I was not a bad hand at imagination, 'Follow me to the White Hart;' and on the way I explained my plan. You will hear later what it was. Now, you will say, Mr. Mayor, that I had better have laid myself down by a haystack, and slept there on an empty stomach; and indeed, after a good supper, such as we had to-night, it would be easy enough for me to say so; but just then it wasn't likely to be my opinion. So we walked into the hotel, as bold as kings, and ordered a private room and dinner for three—French soups and oyster patties, fish and game, and foreign sauces and ale, just as I knew it should be, and Madeira and champagne, of course. When we had done (and, in the intervals when the waiter had gone for the next course, we pocketed as much as our pockets would stand of anything that was solid), we called for the bill, and the waiter brought it, as pompous as you will, on a silver salver. I put my hand in my pocket, whereupon one of my friends, he says: 'Come, come, I'll stand this; it was I who proposed it and chose the wines.' And he puts his hand in his pocket. 'Bless me!' cries the other. 'Gentlemen, I protest; it was I who ordered the dinner, and I request, as a favor, you let me pay; the cost is but a trifle." And he put his hand in his pocket. The waiter stood grinning and smirking, and thinking this great fun. "'An idea strikes me,' I then said. 'Waiter, we'll blindfold you and shut the door, and whoever you catch first will settle the bill.' At this my friends clapped their hands, and the waiter, as proud as a peacock at the condescension of such fine young gentlemen, gives us a napkin to tie over his eyes, and lets us spin him round two or three times, that he may begin fair. 'Now!' I cried, and he began feeling about, afraid to upset the table; but he knew the room well, and went first to a closet beside the further door. While he made a noise opening it and feeling inside, I slid to another door, and gently pushed it ajar. In a twinkling we were all three walking leisurely out of the White Hart, looking like independent gentlemen, who did the host the great honor of approving of his cook! That afternoon, we drew lots which should sell his fine suit to pay travelling expenses, and it fell on me; so good-by to my gay plumage, says I, and never dropt a tear, but got the money and played valet to the other two till we got to London, where I made them pay me what they owed through a lucky stroke at cards. And then we parted company, nothing loath on my side. So that is how I read the saying, 'The Lord helps them as helps themselves.'"

Every one smiled at the privileged old man, though Philippa held up a warning forefinger and whispered: "Grandpapa told me once that you were not half so bad as you make yourself out to be. Why did you not put on ladies' clothes, and go and beg for a dinner? They could not have said no to a pretty face, and it would have been better than stealing."

"Hark at that!" said Uncle Jim aloud. "You women are born to fool us. If I had my life to begin again, I should take advantage of that suggestion. The truth was, high society ruined me; and here I am, a destitute waif without a home. It is the first chapter of the Prodigal Son; but I shall never get into the second."

He looked with comical gravity at Mr. Mason, whose glance of affectionate amusement perfectly satisfied him in return; and then the old man, drawing Philippa towards him, said gently to her:

"On your next birthday, as you know, child, you will become entitled to all my fortune, and with this present will enter, too, into great responsibilities. Now, to give you an idea of what wealth is, what it can do, and how grave a trust it is, I will tell you a story too, but more humbly than good Uncle Jim, because my fault was more reckless, and because God has been more merciful to me in making it bring forth real good. Your father and your uncles were all little things then, and do not remember it, except very dimly; and since that Christmas, forty years ago, I have never repeated the tale."

And in simple, forcible language the Mayor of Carthwaite told his grandchild the story of the distress in Weston in the year 18—, the famine and the wretchedness, the temptations of starving men, and finally the incident in which Mr. Stamyn and the poor shoemaker had figured side by side forty years ago. "And your grandmother and I have prayed for that good man every night without ever missing," added the old man, "and taught your father to do so; you yourself, child, have prayed for the kind friend, whose conversion to the true faith was our greatest wish. But his name and what his kindness was I never told a soul till now."

Philippa was silent. Uncle Jim hid his face, and sobbed. The old couple clasped hands by the fireside, and looked into each other's faces, as they remembered the bare attic where they had shivered and starved, and been nearly driven to become criminals by the sheer force of hunger. Nearly two generations had passed, and they were still together, thanking God that he had put it into the heart of man to relieve his fellow-man that night, when a life of crime and disgrace had so nearly begun to drag them down to the level of a "jail-bird." Philippa crept up to them softly, and kissed them both.

"I understand your life and your charities so much better now," she said; "and when I have the same responsibility thrust upon me, believe me, I will do as you have done."

The bells began to chime, and the party bestirred themselves to go over to the chapel, where the midnight Mass was to be said for the last time. To-morrow the church was to be opened, and dedicated to "Our Lady and S. Crispin," and the chapel was to become a school. Uncle Jim was Philippa's special escort, for the old couple would never separate.

"Did you know that story?" she whispered to him as they crossed the silent streets.

"Ay, but he told me never to speak of it till he gave me leave. He did not tell you who the lad was that spied upon him that night; it was poor Uncle Jim."

Philippa looked aghast.

"Yes," he went on, "and I left Mr. Stamyn some years after, and tried to live as a gentleman on my earnings; but, as I told you in jest, a heap of rascals helped me to empty my purse, and it was soon drained of all. I remembered your grandfather, had taken a fancy to him in Weston, went back, and found him. He took me in, and was very good to me, useless as I was. I was always a shiftless fellow, and never could keep what money I got. So he thought it better just to keep me at home, and I tried to be useful, and could be, too, when there was no question of money; and so it has been for nigh a score of years. Here we are at the chapel. That's one thing I never saw—your religion; but then, Mr. Mason is the best man I ever saw, and he's a Catholic. Anyways, there's no other religion I like better."

And Uncle Jim went in and decorously assisted at the service, just as if it was quite familiar to him and he liked it. I suspect he did, as far as he understood it. What the Masons believed could not be very far wrong.

The next morning there was a grand ceremony at the new church, and an unlimited amount of beef and pudding distributed by tickets among the poorer inhabitants of Carthwaite. After service, a carriage drove up to Mr. Mason's door.

A very old gentleman, followed by a much younger one, stepped out, and inquired for the mayor. They were shown into the study, where all the Masons—cousins, uncles, etc.—had now assembled. The servant announced "Mr. Stamyn."

Uncle Jim, recovering the instincts of his youth, suddenly stood up respectfully before his former master, who, however, did not seem to have the slightest recollection of him.

Mr. Stamyn went up to Mrs. Mason. "My dear friends," he said, "you both told me not to forget your name; it was five years ago that I returned to Weston, and I did not fail to make inquiries, but hardly hoping that I should find you. They told me you had left, and I was lucky enough to find a clue to your subsequent career. I need not say how happy I am to redeem my promise to visit you again; I should certainly have been so, had I found you still in smoky old Weston, but here doubly."

Every one, especially Philippa, was struck by the old-time courtesy, precise, formal, yet most cordial, with which Mr. Stamyn spoke; his young companion glanced admiringly at the girl, instinctively distinguishing her from the more buxom damsels assembled round the family hearth—her cousins of Manchester and Carthwaite. Mr. Mason asked his friend and patron to stay with them, and sit at his board as the chief Christmas guest; he gladly complied, and said laughingly that he had expected to be asked. It was not until after the family meal that Uncle Jim revealed himself to his former master. His awkward self-consciousness and hurried glances had amused Mr. Stamyn in secret all the time, though his own perfectly controlled manner had given no sign of surprise or amusement; but when Jim, mysteriously bending over Mr. Stamyn's chair, feelingly asked what had become of the boy James, the old gentleman's eyes began to twinkle with premonitory signal-fire.

"He left me a few years after our Weston adventure, and, I very much fear, went to the devil!" was the answer.

"No, sir; Mr. Stamyn," said Jim, shaking with excitement, "he went to Mason."

"James," said his master seriously, "you could not possibly have done better; I congratulate you."

Uncle Jim looked triumphantly at Philippa, who was talking to the young man, Mr. Stamyn's companion. By her next birthday she was married to him—he was Mr. Stamyn's great-nephew and heir—but the two old men did not live to see another Christmas. Mrs. Mason and Uncle Jim remain yet, and tell the story to the rising generation.

THE SONG OF ROLAND.

CONCLUDED.

The night flies away, and the white dawn appears. Charles, the majestic emperor, mounts his charger, and casts his eye over the army. "My lords barons," he says, "behold these dark defiles, these narrow gorges. To whom do you counsel me to give the command of the rear-guard?"

"To whom?" replies Ganelon. "To whom but to my son-in-law Roland? Is he not a baron of great valor?"

At these words the emperor looks at him, saying, "You are a very devil! What deadly rage has entered into you?"

Roland approaches; he has heard the words of Ganelon. "Sire father-in-law," he says, "what thanks do I not owe you for having asked for me the command of the rear-guard! Our emperor, be assured, shall lose nothing; neither steed nor palfrey, cart-horse nor sumpter-mule, shall be taken, or our swords shall make more than the price."

"I believe it well," rejoins Ganelon.

"Ah! son of an accursed race!" cries Roland, who can no longer contain his anger, "thou thoughtest that the glove would fall from my hands as it did from thine." Then, turning to the emperor, he prays him to give into his hand the bow which he grasps with his own.

The emperor's countenance darkens; he hesitates to place his nephew in the rear-guard. But the Duke de Naymes says to him, "Give the bow to Count Roland; the rear-guard belongs to him of right, since none other could conduct it so well as he."

And the emperor gives Roland the bow, saying, "My fair nephew, know you what I desire? I would leave with you the half of my army. Take it, I pray you; it shall be for your safety."

"Nay," cries Roland, "I will have no such thing. God forbid that I should belie my race! Leave me twenty thousand valiant Frenchmen, and set out with all the rest. Pass at ease through the defiles, and, while I am alive, fear no man in the world."

Roland mounts his charger. He is joined by his faithful Oliver, then Gérer, then Berenger, and the aged Anséis, Gérard of Roussillon, and the Duke Gaifier. "I, too, will be there," says the Archbishop Turpin, "for I ought in duty to follow my chief."

"And I also," says Count Gauthier. "Roland is my liege-lord, and I must not fail him."

The vanguard begins its march.

How lofty are these peaks! What sombre valleys! How black the rocks; the defiles how profound! The French, in these dark gorges, seem oppressed with sadness. The sound of their footsteps may be heard full fifteen leagues away.

When they draw near to their mother-country, within sight of the land of Gascony, they call to mind their fiefs and their possessions, their tender children and their noble wives. The tears start into their eyes—those of Charles most of all; for his heart is heavy at the thought that he has left Roland among the mountains of Spain.

He hides his face with his mantle. "What ails you, sire?" asks the Duke Naymes, riding by his side.

"Is there any need to ask?" he answers. "In the grief that I am in, how can I refrain from groaning? France will be undone by Ganelon. In a dream this night an angel has made this known to me. He broke my lance in my hands—he who caused me to give the rear-guard to Roland, leaving him in this ungentle land. Heavens! were I to lose Roland, I should never see his like again!"

Charles wept; and a hundred thousand Frenchmen, touched by his tears, shuddered as they thought upon Roland. Ganelon, the felon, has sold him for gold and silver, and shining stuffs; for horses, and camels, and lions.

King Marsilion has sent for all the barons of Spain: dukes, counts, and viscounts, emirs and sons of the senators. He assembles four thousand of them in three days.

The drums beat in Saragossa; the image of Mahomet is set on its highest tower; and there is no pagan who does not feel himself inflamed at the sight. Then, behold, all the Saracens set forth, riding at double speed into the depths of these long valleys. By dint of haste, they have come in sight of the gonfalons of France and of the rear-guard of the twelve brave peers. By evening they lie in ambush in a wood of fir-trees on the sides of the rocks. Four hundred thousand men are hidden there, awaiting the return of the sun. O heavens! what woe! for the French knew naught of this.

The day appears. Now it is the question in the Saracen army who shall strike the first blow. The nephew of Marsilion caracoles before his uncle. "Fair my lord the king," he says, with a joyful countenance, "in severe and numerous combats I have served you so greatly that I ask as a reward the honor of conquering Roland."