had once been a magnificent garden, but now was a mass of tangled weeds, briers and decayed vegetation; and only when he came to a small parterre in front of the door, did Jacques see any thing to remind him of the splendors of the past. A careful hand still tended those flowers, and here and there the winter heliotrope raised its odorous clusters upon which the hoar frost glittered in the last rays of the setting sun. Seated near the door in an arm-chair, a flood of golden sunshine falling upon him, was an invalid gasping for his breath, with his head supported on his hand. Birds came to pick among the flowers at his feet and the pigeons sweetly cooed over his head in the genial rays. Jacques stopped as he recognized his great cousin, as he always called the old member of the revolutionary committee.

In spite of the ravages of disease he still preserved the same expression of audacious energy. The yellowish brown hair cut close to the forehead, displayed in bold relief the thick, heavy eyebrows, beneath which rolled two dark and deep orbits-the nose was firm and bent like an eagle's beak-the thin lips firmly compressed, and lastly, his head rested upon one of those short necks, the never-failing sign of a blood hound's nature.

ra.

"Does he sleep?" demanded sister Cla

Jacques replied in the affirmative in a low voice.

"Speak louder," replied the nun with severity, "his hours are numbered-he must be awakened."

The sick man heard, opened his eyes and immediately recognised Jacques.

"Have you come at last? but no matter, I have time yet," said he, making an effort to rise.

Sister Clara shook the pillow on which he reclined, and as she did so, he looked behind the Noyeur.

"Are you alone?" cried he. "Where is your son?"

"Absent," replied Jacques, not willing to tell what had passed at Meilleraie.

The harsh eye of the sick man was fastened upon him.

"Did he not refuse to come?" demanded he, "lie not."

"I have told the truth," said Jacques tranquilly.

"But it was he I wished to see," said the grand cousin in a tone of chagrin.

"What matters the absence of the son if the father is here? Can he not execute your orders-he has done it before," said the man in a dry tone.

Jacques trembled and cast down his head. The dying man raised his with an indomitable expression.

"You are right, sister Clara," said he bitterly, "he faithfully obeyed me the day when he saved your life at the risk of his, and—" he stopped.

"And yours," finished the blind nun, "that is a memory that will endure to be recalled. He had the courage to save the life of a poor nun, only because she was a friend of his mother whilst at a convent. You see I have not forgotten it."

"I know, I know," said the sick man somewhat impatiently, "when all have turned against me, when every one have abandoned me, you only have come to offer your services-I do not say your consolations."

"God alone can console," replied the sister calmly.

"Well, you alone have given me your care then," continued the old man, "for twenty-five years I have had one to watch over, economise and work for me, nevertheless I have not been less alone. No matter, you have given what others refused, and I am not ashamed at feeling obliged to you."

"You need not feel obliged," said the nun, in a cold, steely voice. "What I have done was from duty, not choice; I wish to acquit myself for the honor of men and glory of God."

"So," said the invalid, putting his hands on the rim of the chair to rise, "nothing was for me; you have looked upon me as a punishment which would purchase your faults; you have lived in my solitude for twenty-five years without one emotion of sympathy."

"An abyss was between us," said the nun calmly. "You could cross it upon

the cross of the Saviour, you would not do it; let Christ judge you."

"And therefore you have refused my property," cried the dying man, raising his voice, "having done nothing for me from kindness, you will not have my gratitude. Your God alone must pay you. Well, go to your prayer, I no longer wish you-go saint, whose generosity is a curse! Beyond these walls which have so long imprisoned me, I have a thought there are souls less bigoted. Yes, the time will come when I shall be judged less harshly. I am sure if that world which has proscribed me could now speak, its voice would be more merciful."

A

"Listen," interrupted the nun. hue and cry was raised without the walls. You could distinguish the name of the dying man mingled with curses and threats. Almost at the same instant a shower of stones flew over the walls, and dashing upon the parterre crushed the flowers the fugitive birds flew away.

The invalid uttered a feeble cry-the paleness of death was replaced by a still more livid look. He had heard the derisive laughter of the children who were flying after their daily attack upon the cursed house. For many years this insult had been daily renewed on their leaving school, and the terrible companion of Carrier could never become accustomed to it: he who hurled defiance at all anathemas, cowered like a whipped hound under the insults of children. His feeble hands was raised with an effort to wipe the drops of sweat which covered his forehead.

"The world has replied," said sister Clara after a short silence.

"Not the world," murmured the dying man; "but hatred-leave me, leave me." The nun turned her head and fixing her marble eyes upon the gasping man as if she could pierce through the deep darkness which enveloped her, and raising her hand with awful solemnity, said "One more hour is still spared to you, repent!"

She turned slowly and disappeared in the house. Jacques followed her with staring eyes, as if she were a phantom of divine justice. When she disappear

VOL. XXII-4

ed there was a long silence. The dying man made a supreme effort to recover himself, and in a half delirium, broken by convulsive spasms, said—

"Me repent!-they don't know mefools-who believe. Let them wait."

His voice ceased although his lips still moved, and Jacques approached him to render him assistance, believing his soul had departed. He took his hands and called him by his name. His stiffened eyelids half opened, a jet of life colored his features, as he made a feeble effort to draw his old companion near him.

"Hear me your son is a brave mariner-all I possess belongs to him—all;" and as Jacques was about to interrupt him with thanks:

"Quick, in the cushion, feel-what is it ?"

"A portfolio," said the Noyeur. "That is it-your son-all-honest men whom honest men have left poor-the cursed scoundrel will enrich him. spite of them I shall finish by one good act."

In

A smile of irony glaced over his cold features as the death rattle stopped his voice. Jacques called sister Clara, who came with the same immovable countenance, and slowly knelt by the chair, whilst the Noyeur held the dying head. All there remained in perfect silencethe sun was almost gone—the birds were still-an icy sadness reigned around. At last when the latest rays left the tops of the houses, the dying man started and heaved a last sigh. Jacques bent forward, listened a moment and placed his hands upon his lips. The blind nun raised her head.

"Is he in the hands of his God?" she asked.

"Yes."

She quickly arose.

"Then my trial is at last ended. Oh Lord, thou hast drawn me like a second Daniel, from the lion's den. Blessed be thy holy name!" and signing herself twice with the holy cross, she slowly withdrew.

The Noyeur cast around a frightened look, and concealing the portfolio in his bosom, left, whilst the corpse, its head

resting upon the back of the chair as if its livid features still wished to defy heaven, remained abandoned in the heavy dew which descended with the darkness!

After Jacques had left the garden he wandered, half delirious, along without end or aim, until he came near an old dilapidated inn on the banks of the Loire, there recovering himself somewhat, he entered and demanded supper. An old woman was knitting near the fire place by the light of a torch. She was visibly surprised at the entrance of a guest, and asked what he would have. A few crusts of bread dipped in brandy supplied him, and swallowing it hastily, he withdrew to his chamber which overlooked the river.

Whilst Andrew's father sought in intoxication and sleep forgetfulness of the past, not far from him watched one whose every hope had been destroyed by the past. Opposite the inn, across the river, rose a small square tower, darkly sketched upon the horizon. It was the flouring mill of Francis' mother. Etine had been there for some hours in company with her uncle, who had just left in company with his nephew, to secure their boat from the ice which began to appear in the river-after a few questions Etine's aunt led her to a small chamber in the upper story, and left her, telling her she would sleep as soundly as a child of three years until the next morning, rocked by her mother, the good river. But the poor girl remained sleepless; she knew then her uncle would never give his consent for her to marry the son of a noyeur, and torn with a thousand contending emotions, she paced the chamber in hopeless sorrow. The tears fell from her eyes like large drops of summer rain. Many hours were SO passed at length her tears were exhausted, her swollen eyelids closed, and sighing like a grieving child she sunk upon the bed and slept with her arms crossed over her forehead. A low, deep and prolonged murmur awakened her. By degrees it came nearer and increased. It was a powerful and progressive rolling of the waters. Soon lights were seen glancing about-the bell tolled from St. Peter's, and a loud voice rose in the

midnight darkness. "The ice! the ice!" This terrible cry was uttered by messengers from the head of the Loire, who rushed through cities, villages and hamlets upon their palpitating horses, shaking their flaming torches. At Meilleraie a man had arrived half dead, and Archer, taking his torch and a fresh horse, rushed towards Nantes to inform the inhabitants.

The news spread like wild fire, and in an instant almost the banks of the river were bordered with a moving multitude, and the bridges crowned with a garland of living heads. Every thing which could break the first shock of the ice was thrown in the Loire; already the increasing waters announced its approach. At last the advance guard was seen. reached across the whole breadth of the river, and slowly advanced like an army of white phantoms, rustling their snowy mantles in the midnight breeze.

It

Etine, awakened by the noise, ran to her aunt, and both looked with fright upon the mass of ice formed above the mill, but they soon perceived that they were protected by a circle made by those objects which were thrown in the river, and Mem, whose boat was in the same enclosure, encouraged them by his voice. Every preparation was making for their escape, and the women felt somewhat reassured, and looked with wonder at the strange spectacle before them. Above them, as far as the eye could reach, were seen the pale and shining forms rushing against each other, with a fearful noise, and sinking with a loud noise under the encumbered arches. To their right, the houses which bordered the river had been successively awakened, and from every window gleamed a light, upon every door sill sounded voices. To the left a dark, silent and deserted prairie stretched away in the distance. The isolated inn appeared a black spot on the horizon. Their eyes had just fallen upon it, when they saw a form slowly leave it and advance towards the inn, which enclosed the mill. It was that of a tall, thin man, carrying a wooden spike upon his should

ers.

"Look, Etine," cried her aunt, "where

is that unfortunate man going! Is he tired of life?"

"He walks straight before him, looking neither to the right or left," said Etine."

He reached the edge of the ice and turned. Etine started back, by the clear light of the stars, she recognized the fixed eyes and contracted features of master Jacques. Mem did the same.

"It is the noyeur," cried he; "God is just, and sends him to his destruction." The night walker continued to follow the link of ice at the end of which an abyss opened; but he stopped before he came there, and raising his spike struck at the waters with confused exclamations. Soon he reached the edge, which was heard to crack, and still more shaken by the violence of his strokes, it was heard to crack in its whole length. Mem in vain endeavored to arrest him by shouts and threats, but completely given up to his habitual hallucination, the night walker heard nothing, and continued his furious work.

"Curses upon the wretch!" said the enraged patroon.

"If the ice breaks we are lost! Push to the noyeur, Francis, I will force him to quit, dead or alive." The boat glided towards Jacques, and Mem raised his pole to strike him; but it was too late. The bank of ice broke in twenty places, and the pieces which, till then, had been stopped by it, rushed pell-mell, and the floating mountain hurled in the waters the boat, and the night walker, at the same instant, together. The cry of terror which came from the mill reached the multitude on the bridge. As the open space was already filled by the avalanches of ice which now rushed against the mill with a horrible crash, Etine, mad with fright, rushed up to her chamber and sunk senseless on the bed. In the meantime the masses of ice heaped against the mill, furiously shook the inn cables which fastened it to the bottom of the river. At every onset some portion of them was carried away. At last a terrible noise-the mill for one moment was raised from the waters-then cast down, floated away. A frightful ory came from

she saw

the multitude on the bridge. The mill came on, dominating over the masses of petrified waves. Sometimes the great wheels, moved by the shock of the ice, turned rapidly around, and then suddenly stopped. The black and trembling tower almost touched one of the arches, leant forward for the final plunge, and stopped for one instant. This supreme pause seemed to awaken Etine; the danger, and excess of terror gave her back the strength of which terror had deprived her. She rushed to the window with extended arms shrieking for help. Vain cry, not a human being could reach her. A murmur of pity and horror was heard. Clutching the window, the young girl lost every sensation but the desire of life, but the mill still slowly sunk. Already its top was on the edge of the water, when a man appeared on the parapet of the bridge. It was Andrew, just arrived at Nantes, who thinking of the danger the mill might be in, rushed to the bridge, and came just to see it about to sink forever. He understood all at a glance. In two leaps he sprung upon the arch before which stood the mill. With a mighty effort he leaped upon one of the huge iron chains-he glided along to the window where Etine stood. As he reached out his arms, the black edifice trembled upon the waters. He stretched forth his hand and tore the girl from the window. Both remained for a moment suspended over the abyss; but with a mighty effort he raised her up to clasp the chain, and at that moment a horrible roaring was heard beneath him, and an icy shower dashed in his face. The mill had sunk. Every mariner urged on by the noble bravery of the young man, and eager to save such heroism, rushed with cords and ropes to the rescue, and by their united efforts they were at length safely brought to the bridge. All effort to find the aunt were unavailing-she was buried under the waters with Mem and Francis. As soon as Etine had recovered from the shock, and attended a high mass for her departed relatives, she left for the hermitage of Saint Vincent, the only asylum now remaining to her. There Andrew went to see her. The

farmer did not partake of Mem's prejudices. Knowing that his niece owed her life to the young patroon, he received him cordially. Besides, a great change had taken place in Andrew's circumstances. The portfolio had been found by him at the inn with the vest and hat of master Jacques. He was ignorant of the origin of the contents of the portfolio, and thought he inherited only his father's savings, and this unlooked for opulence silenced all objections.

Three months after these events, he married Etine at Saint Vincent, and gave up his former calling.

Travellers, going from Angers to Nantes, can still see, between Chantoc and Ingrande, a neat wooden paling enclosing a pretty yard; at the back, in the midst of a garden, is a cottage with a white façade entwined with vines and Bengal roses, overlooking the Loire. There on the banks of the river he still loves, and lulled by the murmuring of its waters, Andrew lives happily with his beloved Etine. S. S. C.

COLUMBUS, GA.

S. L. C.