Then he would kiss her upturned lips-her heart with hope would swell;

Ah, guileless little Antoinette, the daughter of Marcel.

The autumn winds were winged with gold-the swallows homeward flew ;

More lovely and more beautiful the little maiden grew ; But passion is a fickle flame-the stranger fled one night, Nor left one word or sign to tell the reason of his flight. The gossips gazed at Antoinette with malice in their

eyes;

They said, "Her lover is a Lord or Prince in low disguise!"

But strong Marcel, with hearty laugh, would strive her soul to cheer

Would stoop to kiss her pretty cheek, and whisper in

her ear,

"What care I for the stranger youth when you are spared to me?

Come back to your old place, my child, and sit upon my knee!"

Love was immortal in the soul of little Antoinette;
She heeded not her father's laugh, nor heard her mother

fret.

No more her happy songs were heard along the river Loire ;

She sat and dreamed with downcast eyes beside the cottage door.

At every voice and sound she heard she started from her place;

She watched with wistful eyes to see her lover's form and face.

The crimson faded from her cheeks, and hopeless sorrow fell

Upon the heart of Antoinette, the daughter of Marcel.

Cold blew the bleak November wind along the river

Loire ;

The lifeless form of Antoinette was wafted to the shore;

White as the newly-fallen snow her pallid features

seemed;

She looked, when calmly lying there, like one who sweetly dreamed.

A bright smile lingered on her lips; her sightless eyes were closed;

Upon her bosom, bare and white, her slender hands re

posed.

About her round, full waist there clung her damp disheveled hair,

That half concealed from human sight her secret of dis

pair.

The father, seeking for his child, came down alone that

way;

He found her lying lifeless there; one wail of deep dis

may

Burst from his heart-then from the spot her lovely form he bore,

Nor paused to speak until he came to his own cottage

door.

Close at his heels the village throng came hurrying in

surprise,

With words of anguish on their lips and horror in their

eyes.

With frowning face turned strong Marcel: "Begone!" he sternly said.

Then laid the lifeless Antoinette upon her snowy bed, And, with a look upon his face no man had seen before, He turned away from that sad place and left the cottage

door;

Without a sigh, without a tear, away from sight he strode,

And no one dared to follow him adown the winding road.

Upon his way went bold Marcel; his home was left behind;

His strength seemed like the strength of ten; one purpose filled his mind.

With tireless feet he crossed the vales, o'er vine-clad hills

he trod,

And no one knew his sombre thoughts, except himself and God.

A hundred weary leagues were passed, yet still he for ward pressed,

Nor scarcely stopped for food or drink, nor paused for sleep or rest.

His cheeks grew hollow, and his eyes seemed sunken in his head,

He only hoped to meet once more the stranger who had fled.

He reached at last a mountain height; a river ran below; Far down the vale he saw a light that gleamed from a chateau.

A fierce, exultant, savage look illumined his sallow face; With rapid strides his way he took, and reached the hated place.

There, through a casement, he beheld, in an apartment fair,

The recreant lover of his child-the Lord of De Bon

naire;

There, in his proud paternal home, in sweet content and

joy,

He smiled upon his gentle wife, and lovely little boy.. Ignoble man! by social crime your pride may never fall;

The world's false judgment is sublime it smiles and condones all;

But let a guileless woman stray into your secret snare, And she must die to hide the wrong the world will not repair.

Out of the soul of mad Marcel all sense of pity fled; The veins stood out like knotted cords upon his throbbing head;

His hot blood boiled-his broad breast heaved-he ground his teeth in rage,

And pressed his nails into his palms his fury to assuage. He gazed upon his hated foe till he could look no more; Then through the window leaped upon the tessellated

floor,

With indignation in his eyes, and the ferocious air

With which a cruel tiger springs in fury from his lair.

The child flew to the mother's arms-loud shrieked the frightened wife;

The ingrate fell upon his knees, and begged his worthless life;

But, with a smile of proud contempt, Marcel looked down on him—

Then seized him with his brawny hands, and rent him limb from limb

With Samson's strength the false youth's form his furious fingers tore;

Then hurled the mangled body down upon the bloodstained floor,

And, with a shudder in his frame, turned from the awful

sight,

And through the window disappeared into the starless night.

Through darkness dense and deep he fled far from that fateful place,

With horror in his breaking heart, and fear upon his

face,

Till, weak and helpless as a child, upon the earth he fell, Then sank to sweet and calm repose-the murderer Marcel.

He reached at last a market town; he saw a rabble near, Unnoticed in the dusk he paused a crier's voice to hear, Who shouted in a doleful tone that on the night air fell, "A thousand crowns to him who takes the MURDERER MARCEL!"

A way into the night he fled-away from haunts of menAway in terror and affright, through thicket, field and fen

Away-scarce heeding where he went, without a thought of time;

The great world seemed too small to hide the horror of his crime.

On! On! fled gaunt and gray Marcel, with terror in his mind;

Fear gave him superhuman strength to leave his foes behind.

He turned from every public place and human form he

met;

The look upon the dead man's face his soul could not forget.

'Twas Christmas Eve. The twinkling stars looked down divine and fair;

The merry peals of clanging bells were borne along the air;

Through cheerful cottage windows gleamed the candles on his sight,

While merry children laughed and screamed with pleasure and delight.

Within Iris quiet cottage home, beside the River Loire, The voice of little Antoinette would welcome him no more!

And she was dead-so young, so fair! He knew not where she slept

For other hands had decked her grave and other eyes had wept.

Beneath the silent, starry sky he sank upon the stones; His pent-up anguish found relief in broken sobs and

groans.

O sacred grief! O holy pain! Divinely-chastening rod! You drag the scoffer to the dust to raise his soul to God; You crush the pride in human hearts. How near to Heaven above

Our souls seem lifted while we dream of dead ones that we love!

With thoughts like these Marcel grew calm; all sense of danger fled;

He staggered to a cottage door, and begged a crust of bread.

A pale-faced mother met him there, her countenance

was sad;

She looked upon his famished form, and gave him all

she had.