expensive literary curios, with a true French courtesy and formality that is very foreign to Canadians of that ancestry.

There is but one great pleasure in his life that is otherwise so very monotonous. Every morning he walks out to the Terrace just before sunrise. And there he sits on one of the benches for almost an hour, smoking his pipe, and gazing at the scene in contemplative silence. There is first the dull gray that precedes daybreak and below in the broad river at his feet are the indistinct outlines of boats. Then the uncertain darkness is gradually dispelled until suddenly the sunbeams shoot out from beyond the blurred horizon, and soon the whole sky is ablaze. And glancing with an everchanging light upon the massive gray-walled fort and irregular rows of houses beneath, it awakens with a magical, Midas-like touch the whole city to a faint realization of the fact that although it still remains an historic relic of the Old World it must not slumber forever.

Old Flavier never misses his morning walk, and this is another interesting topic for the garrulous and provincial coterie of the small and narrow community of the Rue St. Genevieve. Madame Gabrielle, who lives opposite, has her own opinion. "Ah, yes," she says, "but he must have been a wild youth, a very diable. There is some of the fire in his eyes yet ;" and then she folds her hands and looks sadly at the little thin chintz curtains of the scrupulously neat room as she thinks over some passages from her own youth.

But up in the little garret where Monsieur Flavier sleeps, a heavy cavalry sabre hangs on the wall and twisted around it is a faded red sash. And on the wrecked bureau lies the picture of a handsome young trooper in the magnificent uniform of Napoleon's famous dragoons.

Flavier has been dead many years. His romance, that was not, perhaps, such a very great romance after all, has long been forgotten. His story is not as pathetic or interesting as many another that is never published. It had no effect or influence upon the outside world. Old Quebec is just about the same. The dark, narrow street is just as provincial as ever. But the dusty little bookstore is still there to remind us of the untold tale of one man in a thousand.

E. H.

-In Hertfordshire, some six miles distant from Knebworth, the former home of the Bulwer-Lyttons, authors, poets and diplomatists, you come upon the interesting old church of Welwyn. In the stubble fields 'round about the quaint gray edifice, the gleaners are at work, aged men, women and children, one of whom, a chubby-cheeked urchin volunteers to guide the stranger to the grave which is the curiosity of Welwyn churchyard.

In a remote corner of the moss-grown mouldering burying ground you halt, to stand open-eyed, while the boy recites monotonously his oft-repeated story of the tomb.

In the early years of this century there lived in the neighborhood of Welwyn church a lady of high birth, but of evil repute-noted throughout the county for her blasphemous sayings and atheistic doctrines. Upon her deathbed, this lady vowed with a scoffing laugh that, should she realize the threatened hereafter, in token of her punishment, five ash trees would grow from her grave. They buried her with doubt and misgiving, and often on a stormy evening the elders in the chimney corners would whisper the story of her mocking prophecy.

Thus the tradition was preserved, and it was with superstitious awe that the next generation beheld the gradual upheaval of the grave. A line in the flat tombstone widened to a crack and before the white surface of the marble had grown gray with age, before years had antiquated the letters of the inscription, five sturdy ash shoots had forced their way through the fissure in the stone.

With the growth of the saplings, the fame of the miracle spread far and wide and many a visitor came to gaze upon the five ash trees, which to-day, raising their heads to a noble height have split the tombstone into fragments and incorporated in their trunks the iron railing surrounding the grave. Often, of a Sunday, the old clergyman, pausing in his sermon, points through the open window of the church towards this phenomenon of Divine power, and carries conviction to the heart of many a simple rustic.

F. B. H.

-One of the most fascinating sidelights in the history of the French Revolution was the Salon. No longer the fountains of wit and philosopy, they had degenerated into mere politi

cal rallying points. Among the leaders of the Salons in this exciting period, the most interesting and picturesque character was Madame Roland. Born in the ranks of the bourgeoisie, Madame Roland launched herself on the tide of the Revolution with all the fervour and energy of her nature. She would have felt cramped and caged in the conventional atmosphere of the court under the old regime in which the gravest problems were apt to be forgotten in the flash of an epigram or the turn of a bon-mot. The strong and heroic outlines of her character were more clearly defined on the theatre of the world. But at a time when the power of the Salon was waning, when vital interests and burning convictions had, for the moment, thrown into shade all minor questions of form and convenance, she organized her Salon in a simpler fashion, and held her sway over the daring and ardent men, who gathered about her, by the unassisted force of her clear and vigorous intellect. Her modest little Salon, in which the unfortunate Girondists met four times a week to discuss the grave problems that confronted them, had little in common with the famous centers of conversation and wit during the reign of the Grand Monarque, Brissot, Vergriaud, Petion, Gaudet and Brizot were the leaders then-men sincere and enthusiastic, though misguided, and unable to stem the storm they had raised, to be themselves swept away by its pitiless rage. Robespierre, the "Incorruptible," scheming and ambitious, came there, listened, said little, appropriated for his own ends, and bided his time. Small taste had Madame Roland for the light play of intellect and wit that occasionally beguiled an evening. As she measured her strength she became more outspoken. The most daring moves were made at her bidding. Weak and vacillating men yielded to her rapid insight, her earnest vigor, and her persuasive eloquence. Many of the swift changes of those first months may be traced to her Salon. Still in spite of her energy, her strength and her courage, she prided herself on maintaining always the reserve and decorum of her sex.

Madame Roland does not really belong to the world of Salons, though she has been included in them by her own contemporaries. She represents a social reaction in which old forms are adapted to new ideas, and lose their essential quality by the change. But she foreshadows a type of women that

has had great influence since the Salons have lost their prestige. She relied neither upon the reflected light of a coterie, the arts of a courtier, nor the subtle power of personal attraction; but, firm in her convictions, clear in her purposes, and unselfish in her aims, she laid down her interests and in the end her life upon the altar of liberty and humanity.

P. C. P.

It was a most cheerless room in which to be ill. The dreary light from the one dingy little window revealed the walls bare and blackened and long strips of laths where the plaster had fallen away. In a corner, a dilapidated stove, and in another, the remnant of what had once been an easy" chair. By the window, a rough pine table, and close against the opposite wall the miserable bed in which the sick woman lay. That was all. On the table stood a saucer in which the oil from the leaky tin lamp above dripped intermittently, filling the room with its vile odor.

All was silence, not even broken by a sigh or groan from the woman. She lay so still, that one might have thought her dead, had not from time to time her eyes opened and wandered listlessly around the room. Expressionless eyes which looked no pain or misery. Had they not always seen just such wretchedness? For a moment they rested on the lamp and followed the drops of oil down to the saucer, then, on some dead flies lying on the window sill-on, out the window to a bit of leaden sky across which drifted clouds of murky smoke. Then they closed wearily.

There was a smart rap at the door and to the woman's feeble "Come in," it opened and a girl stood on the threshold. She was dressed in black, rich black, from the large velvet hat with its nodding plumes to the rustling skirts. Her cheeks were glowing and her eyes shone brightly. She held a great bunch of yellow chrysanthemums which contrasted brilliantly with the dark background.

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and she could see the room and the pale face of the woman. "Isn't this terrible?" She stepped inside, leaving the door open, and the cold draft blew the loose hair of the sick woman about her face.

"I never slummed before," said the girl rapidly, "I had no idea it was as bad as this. You see, they have been talking

about it a good deal at the Society, and so I ordered the carriage this afternoon and came down without telling any one. These are not so very pretty," and she held the flowers out and examined them critically, "but they are the best Thorley had."

The sick woman said nothing but gazed stonily at the girl. There was a long pause. The girl was growing embarrassed and her color came and went. Laying the flowers on the table she left the room, closing the door hastily behind her.

The woman's eyes were fixed for a long time on the wall opposite. Then they closed. The oil dripped slowly into the saucer and spattered the flowers.

C. B. DE C.