-

Some time after this she became worse, and St. Francis de Sales was sent for.

10. The news of all that had occurred grieved the tender-hearted bishop very much, for he dearly loved this dear little sister, so early widowed. He brought with him several priests, who were deeply moved at the courage and devotion of the dying girl. The bishop asked her, in his usual way, if she was ready to say, "Live, Jesus!" She replied, "Yes, my lord;" and also added, "Whose death showed the strength of His love." He asked her again if she would make her confession. "Ah, yes," she eagerly replied, "I shall be glad. I wish it." And joining her hands, she immediately began to make her examen of conscience.

11. After the Holy Viaticum, Marie Aymée asked her mother to grant her one favor, which was to receive the habit of a novice; and, very humbly turning to the bishop, she begged of him not to think of her sins and misery, but rather of the charity and mercy of God. The bishop replied that the nuns would be exceedingly glad to give her the habit; and when everything was hastily made ready, he invested her with the novice's habit, and then gave her Extreme Unction. Marie Aymée had by that time become perfectly calm and joyful, and asked if she might beg one more grace-that of making her three vows and her profession as a Visitation Nun; and as all the community joined with Madame de Chantal in giving consent, the bishop clothed her with the black veil and received her vows, which she pronounced in a sweet, clear voice, with great fervor.

12. And now, having nothing further to desire,

she only made ready to depart in peace with extraordinary joy, saying: "Oh, my Jesus, my King, my Spouse, Thou art all mine, and I am all Thine forever and ever!" Very sharp and cruel pains seized and racked her feeble and failing frame, and, in spite of her resolution and courage, she could not help crying out aloud. St. Francis, wishing to give her the merit of one more final sacrifice, asked her if she were ready to bear those pains till the last day, if such were the will of God. Marie Aymée instantly replied that she was ready to bear, not only those, but any other pains that God might send; for she was His alone and altogether. Those who were looking on about her bed, while weeping and sobbing gently at the thought that their beloved little sister was leaving them while still a child, saw with delight that her fair face was lit up with a heavenly radiance, and that the divine peace seemed already stamping its own seal upon that spotless, child-like brow.

13. Toward the early dawn Marie Aymée spoke once more, saying gently: "Here is death; now I must make ready to go." Then, pronouncing in a clear, sweet voice, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!" she looked up once toward heaven, and went to her rest. This beautiful life, let it never be forgotten, had lasted but a little more than nineteen years. During that time Marie Aymée de Chantal had become a wife, a mother, a widow, and a nun, and also, as we may truly believe, a person of ripe sanctity and much beloved of God. The flower, cultivated and tended with such extreme care, was early gathered and removed out of sight; but it was transplanted to that "garden enclosed "

in which the Lord of pure souls and little children takes eternal delight.

EMILY BOWLES.

LESSON XXXVIII.

BRUSHWOOD.

1. ON a weary slope of Apennine,
At sober dusk of day's decline,
Out of the solemn solitude

Of Vallombrosa's antique wood,
A withered woman, tanned and bent,
Bearing her bundled brushwood went,
Poising it on her palsied head,

As if in penance for prayers unsaid.

2. Her dull cheeks channelled were with tears,
Shed in the storms of eighty years;
Her wild hair fell in gusty flow,
White as the foamy brook below;
Still toiled she with her load alone,
With feeble feet, but steadfast will,
To gain her little home, that shone
Like a dreary lantern on the hill.

3. The mountain child, no toil could tame,
With lighter load beside her came,

Spake kindly, but its accents fond

Were lost, soon lost on the heights beyond.
There came the maid in her glowing dress,
The wild-eved witch of the wilderness.

Her brush-load shadowing her face,
Her upright figure full of grace,

Like those tall pines whose only boughs
Are gathered round their dusky brows;
Singing, she waved her hand, "Good-night,"
And round the mountain passed from sight.

4. There climbed the laborers from their toil,
Brown as their own Italian soil;

Like satyrs, some in goatskin suits,
Some bearing home the scanty fruits
Of harvest work-the swinging flasks
Of oil, or wine, or little casks,

Under which the dull mule went,
Cheered with its bell, and the echoes sent
From others on the higher height,
Saying to the vale, "Good-night,”
"Good-night;"-and still the withered dame
Slowly staggered on the same.

5. Here, astride of his braying beast,
A brown monk came, and then a priest;
Each telling to the shadowy air,

Perchance, their "Ave Maria" prayer;
For the sky was full of vesper showers,
Shook from the many convent towers,
Which fell into the woman's brain
Like dew upon an arid plain.

These pious men beside her rode;
She crossed herself beneath her load,
As best she could, and so "Good-night,"
And they rode upward out of sight.

6. How far, how very far it seemed,
To where that starry taper gleamed,
Placed by her grandchild on the sill
Of the cottage window on the hill!
Many a parent heart before,

Laden till it could bear no more,

Has seen a heavenward light that smiled,
And knew it placed there by a child,-
A long-gone child, whose anxious face
Gazed toward them down the deeps of space,
Longing for the loved to come

To the quiet of that home.

7. Steeper and rougher grew the road,
Harder and heavier grew the load;
Her heart beat like a weight of stone
Against her breast. A sigh and moan,
Mingled with prayer, escaped her lips,
Of sorrow o'er sorrowing night's eclipse:
"Of all who pass me by," she said,
"There is never one to lend me aid;
Could I but gain yon wayside shrine,
There would I rest this load of mine,
And tell my sacred rosary through,
And try what patient prayer would do."

8. Again she heard the toiling tread

Of one who climbed that way, and said,
"I will be bold, though I should see
A monk or priest, or it should be
The awful abbot, at whose nod
The frighted people toil and plod ;
I'll ask his aid to yonder place,
Where I may breathe a little space,