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had learned sweet words and winning ways, that interested people for me. Well, one day as we were passing a cottage, Mother Verduchene went in to ask for a drink of milk, and there was no one in the cottage but a child asleep in a cradle. She was dressed in the finest cambric and lace, and had, I well remember, a gold chain round her neck. Mother Verduchene caught up the child, and ran off with her so fast, that I did not overtake her till she had got into a wood, where I found her stripping the infant. But when she began to untie a green string, to which a locket was suspended, the little one screamed at such a rate, and then lisping, 'Never part with it!-never part with it!' that Mother Verduchene thought she might as well leave it with her. The next day we left Paris, and the gipsies thought it best to take the child with them."

"My daughter!-my daughter!" exclaimed M. Barbier, as he pressed her fondly to his bosom. "Well do I remember that your mother used so often to repeat the words which she had engraved on the locket when fastening it round your neck, that at last your young lips had learned to form the sound; and no one could touch it, not even myself, without your trying to say, 'Never part!-never part!' But how shall I thank the gracious Being who has so wondrously preserved my child, innocent, pure, and virtuous, amid such a gang of wretches; and who, in inspiring her with the determination not to be instrumental in betraying a stranger, has, to reward her, permitted her to find in that stranger a father! My child!—my child!”.

But wonder and joy had been too much for Alice, and she had fainted in the encircling arms of her father. Tender, cares, fond soothing, and words of love, to which she had been long a stranger, hailed her returning senses; and her father, eager to present her to her brother, now cried, "Come with me, my child! I am impatient to show to the whole world my recovered treasure." "9

"But-Sarah-my father!" said Alice hesitatingly, yet im

ploringly.

"Sarah shall always stay with you, if you like it, my child." "And can you t trust her, my young lady?" said the old house

keeper.

"She may trust me," said Sarah, "if I once promise; and I do promise to try to be good, like herself."

And we will ask God to make us both good," said Alice, "and to take out of our minds all the bad things they used to try to teach us; and I know nice words for asking him-' Create in me a clean heart, oh God, and renew a right spirit within me!" "

"Surely His providential care over you, my sweet child," said M. Barbier, "is a proof that there are no possible circumstances in which the way of duty is not open to us, if we have but honest, truthful purpose of heart to walk therein."

THE TWO BROTHERS.

THERE lived in a small town in the High Alpes a poor man named Marcel; he had been early left a widower, with two young boys, the elder called Jerome, the younger Louis. Having much good sense, he felt the deficiency of his own education, and deeply regretted that his poverty deprived him of the power of affording a good one to his sons: he did his best, however, to instil pious and virtuous principles into their youthful minds. Jerome was giddy, and when his father was absent, would amuse himself with all the young scamps of the village. Scrambling over garden walls to rob the fruit, beating dogs or cats, and throwing stones at the fowls, were their favourite occupations; and when the younger brother attempted to remonstrate, he not unfrequently received a blow in return. As Louis grew older, his naturally gay disposition was saddened by the reflection that he could not find any mode of acquiring information; there was not any village school; and at last, after much hesitation, he went to the curate, and expressing all his grief for his ignorance, he earnestly intreated him to teach him to read. This worthy man was surprised, and much pleased, at this request from so young a child, and willingly acceded to it. The close attention of the pupil so gratified his kind master, that, not satisfied with teaching him to read, he taught him to write, to keep accounts, a little Latin, history, and geography; at the same time carefully attending to his religious education. Jerome ridiculed his brother for his assiduity to his studies; and his faults increasing as he grew up, at the age of fourteen the youth had succeeded in making himself feared and thoroughly detested by the whole village. When the two boys had attained their fifteenth and sixteenth years, their father called them to him, and said, “My dear children, you are both old enough to seek some profitable occupation. I can give you no assistance, for you know that it is with difficulty that I have hitherto supported you. I have saved two pounds; here is one for each of you. Go to the city, try to earn your bread, and let me often hear from you. For thee, my dear Louis, I have no fear; I am truly grateful to the curate for the instruction he has so kindly given thee; it will serve thee everywhere, and thou wilt get on well. As for thee, my poor Jerome, I cannot see thee depart without much anxiety: thou hadst the same opportunities as thy brother, but thou hast not availed thyself of them; thou hast preferred idleness and dissipation, and I greatly fear thou wilt have cause to repent it. My heart forms the same wishes for both of you. Go, my children; may every happiness attend you!" and Marcel tenderly embraced his sons, and wept over them. Just then the curate came in. Louis threw his arms around his benefactor, and was

so overcome by his feelings, that he could not utter a word to express his gratitude. Jerome likewise shed tears, for even the most corrupted cannot completely shake off all natural feeling. At last the two boys walked away, their father and the good curate gazing after them whilst they remained within sight.

The two boys walked for some time sadly and in silence, which was at length broken by Louis asking his brother what occupation he meant to follow. "Oh," said Jerome, "it will be time enough to consider that when our money is exhausted."

"That will not take long, Jerome. I have read somewhere that children and fools think that twenty years and twenty shillings never come to an end."

"No more sermons, brother, I beg." "Well, I shall say no more.'

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Towards evening, our two pedestrians came to an inn, where they stopped for the night; it was about fifteen or eighteen leagues from Lyons, which they hoped to reach within two days. There were a good many people at the inn; amongst others was one whose rakish air attracted the notice of Jerome. He was a fourrier (a petty officer attached to each company in the French army), returning to the garrison of Grenoble. Jerome soon began to talk freely to this man, who, as soon as he discovered that the poor boy had some money, proposed a game at cards. At first, Jerome's purse filled so fast, he thought it quite inexhaustible. The wiser Louis vainly tried to dissuade his brother from the dangerous amusement. He was so rudely received, that he was forced to desist. Another game commenced, and now Jerome's purse was completely emptied. "Lend me some ," said he to Louis, "that I may recover what I have

money,

lost."

"No," said his brother firmly; "you refused to listen to good advice, and now I must keep my money."

The friendship of the fourrier was singularly cooled when he found that Jerome had not a penny left; he soon retired, wishing him a good-night and better luck. When the two boys were alone, Louis said, "I see, brother, that we can never get on together; our tastes and inclinations do not agree, and it is much better for us to separate. I will pay our expenses at this inn, and we will then equally divide what money remains.”

The plan of Louis was adopted; and early the next morning they started on different roads. Jerome took the road to Grenoble, and walking slowly, was soon overtaken by the fourrier. "What are you doing here?" exclaimed the latter. "I thought that you were off to Lyons this morning?" Oh, I have changed my mind. I am Grenoble; I wish to serve in your regiment.' "Indeed; you are a capital fellow! We can go together, and I will present you to my captain."

„going with you to

They arrive at Grenoble; Jerome is presented and enlisted;

he puts on the uniform, shoulders the musket, and commences drill. For a time this was all well enough. He had touched the bounty, and had won a little money at cards from his companions; but this was quickly run through in dissipation and drunkenness on those days when he was not on duty; and how was he to obtain more? Not liking to work, and tired of soldiering, he resolved, although at the risk of being taken and shot, to rob his fellow-soldiers and desert. Knowing that some of them had saved a little money, or earned it in the town when off duty, he watched his opportunity, and searched the knapsacks of these poor men in their absence. In this way he picked up nearly £10, and hastily quitting the barracks, he exchanged his uniform for the dress of a countryman, and left Grenoble, choosing the by-roads, for fear of pursuit. He crossed the country at a brisk pace, sleeping many nights in the open air, and in about ten days reached Châlons-sur-Saône. Here he imagined himself safe; and, emboldened by his success, determined to continue a trade which he found so lucrative and convenient, totally forgetting that justice never sleeps, and that although he may escape detection once, or even oftener, yet in the end discovery is certain, and the culprit pays a heavy penalty for all his crimes. With such a love of play, Jerome's funds were soon at a low ebb, and he looked around for some other favourable occasion.

A band of strolling players was at this time performing at Châlons, and Jerome had made the acquaintance of one of them, named Bernardin, who acted the part of a brigand chief. He tried to induce Jerome to join the party; but there was one great obstacle-the youth did not know how to read. This, however, he did not acknowledge, but said that he had so bad a memory, that he never could recollect a line by heart. “Oh, that does not signify," replied Bernardin; "we can give you what we call a dumb part."

Matters were quickly arranged. The manager being satisfied with his appearance, engaged him; and, dressed as a brigand, he joined the troop of his friend Bernardin. The expression of his countenance was well adapted to his performance, which was partly caused by the circumstance that, in going to the stage, he passed the pay-office, and caught a glimpse of the money-box, quite full enough to excite in his mind sentiments analogous to those he was to represent. For two months he pondered upon the means of acquiring this treasure. He sounded the cashkeeper, and thinking his probity doubtful, he invited him to a tavern, and imparting his plan over the bottle, easily persuaded the foolish creature to join him. They fixed upon a day when a popular piece was to be acted; and no sooner had the cashkeeper received the money for the tickets, than he hastily joined Jerome, who had absented himself from the representation on the plea of indisposition.

That night they walked on, without resting, until morning, when they stopped at an inn to obtain some refreshment. Imagine Jerome's horror upon entering to perceive two gendarmes, who observed him with such attention, that he could not doubt but that he was recognised. Recollecting his desertion, he instantly quitted the room without a word. He had noticed that the horses of the gendarmes were left in the courtyard; and now coolly walking up to them, plunged his knife into one, so as totally to disable it, then snatching the bridle of the other, he sprang into the saddle and gallopped off, carrying the booty along with him, and mocking at the vain menaces of the gendarmes. We shall hear by and by what became of his wretched accomplice, who was thus left without a penny in the hands of the enraged gendarmes.

Jerome never pulled up until the poor horse sunk under him exhausted with fatigue. He then turned off from the road, and sat down in a wood to rest and count his ill-gotten gains: they amounted to £25. Jerome had never seen so much, and was rejoicing over his riches, when two men of fearful aspect walked up, and presenting a pistol at his head, demanded his purse or his life. For a moment he thought that it was all over with him; but rallying his courage, "Eh, sirs!" said Jerome, "I have always heard that wolves never devour one another. I am one of yourselves; it would be a villanous action to rob one of the fraternity."

"That may be; but have you never heard that stolen goods never profit?"

"No more jokes,” replied Jerome. "I tell you I am one of the trade. These monies are the receipts of the players of Châlons, which I have contrived to appropriate. I am ready to share with you, but you cannot expect all."

66 Well," ," said one of the robbers, " if you will really be one of us, you may enroll yourself in our band. So come along." Willingly, sirs; I know of nothing better to do."

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Jerome followed the two thieves to a thick part of the wood, where their comrades, seven or eight in number, were assembled. "We bring a new member," said the wretches. "Is he a safe man?" demanded the leader of the gang. "Yes, yes; he brings money to the general fund." "All right; hand it over, comrade."

For four years he continued to lead this shocking life; but just when he least expected it, his crimes were brought to light, and received their due reward. As the most intelligent of the gang, he was the one selected to hire himself as a servant in a neighbouring chateau, in order to smooth the way for the others to commit an extensive robbery. An officer happened to dine at the chateau whom Jerome did not recollect. Whilst the latter was attending at table, the officer remarked him, and looking_at him more attentively, suddenly called out, "Arrest that man! He

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