Will the persecution which has been begun be kept up with the same

tenacity and violence which the Prince von Bismarck now displays? I fear

less from it for the church than for himself and the German emperor, whose

good sense, uprightness, and religious conscience must feel out of place

in the midst of a policy so _outrée_, revolutionary, anti‐Christian, and

anti‐constitutional, so contrary to his instincts, his natural

disposition, and his antecedents. “It cannot be,” said M. A.

Reichensperger, “that a monarch, crowned with the laurels of victory,

after having achieved external peace through the courage and the fidelity

of the _entire_ German nation, will authorize the persecution of millions

of Germans on account of their faith, and consent to destroy internal

peace—that peace which in particular is the work of his royal brother,

whose memory is still blessed by all Catholics.”

I add my prayer and my hope to the prayer and the hope of the great German

patriot and orator, but I confess that his fears, which are greater than

his hopes, are felt by me also, and to like extent. The times are gloomy.

“The deluge is drawing nigh; but on the waters I see the ark of the

church,” said Count de Montalembert. “She will ride it out, she will live,

and will preside at the funeral of the very powers that thought to have

prepared her own.”

Let Prince Bismarck not forget the words recently uttered by Pius IX. at

one of those allocutions so sublimely eloquent and touchingly holy in

spirit, which, from his prison in the Vatican he addresses to the world.

He was addressing German Catholics, and he told them: “Be confident, be

united; for a stone will fall from the mountain, and will shatter the feet

of the Colossus. If God wills that other persecutions arise, the church

does not fear them; on the contrary, she becomes stronger thereby, and she

purifies herself, because even in the church there are things that need to

be purified, and nothing contributes more thereto than the persecutions

exercised on her by the great ones of the earth.”

Prince von Bismarck may perhaps have smiled on reading these words fallen

from the lips of the Pontiff Pius IX.; if so, he is sadly mistaken; those

old popes who are imprisoned and exiled, but who, to use the profound

expression of the Count de Maistre, _always come back_, are also gifted

with the command of words which are “as burning coals heaped upon the

heads of their persecutors.” The Emperor Napoleon I., too, smiled at the

excommunication hurled at him by Pope Pius VII., then weak and disarmed,

and his complete ruin followed shortly after. I advise the prince

chancellor to bear in mind the stone falling from the mountain and

breaking the feet of the Colossus. I had myself, in my book published in

1860, ventured to refer to that same passage of Scripture: “That splendid

figure,” I said, “which Daniel sets before us of kingdoms WITH FEET PART

OF IRON AND PART OF CLAY, and of the church, _that stone, cut out of a

mountain, without hands, which broke in pieces the kingdoms_, and _became

a great mountain_, and filled _the whole earth_—that figure has its

application in every age, and should stand for all Christians as a hope

amid trials and a teaching to all the proud.”

A Christmas Memory.

God did anoint thee with his odorous oil

To wrestle, not to reign; and he assigns

All thy tears over like pure crystallines

For younger fellow‐workers of the soil

To wear for amulets.

E. B. BROWNING.

No more brilliant party ever assembled for Christmas festivities in

Northern Vermont than that which met on such an occasion, very early in

this century, at the home of a young lawyer in the beautiful little

village of Sheldon, since widely renowned for the efficacy of its healing

waters.

The host and hostess were from families who came among the first settlers

to Vermont. The company was gathered from all parts of the new and

sparsely settled state, with a sprinkling of students who were completing

their legal course at the famous law‐school of Judge Reeves, in

Litchfield, Conn.—of which their host was a graduate—and of young ladies

and gentlemen from different places in Massachusetts and Connecticut.

Several of these young ladies were passing the winter with acquaintances

in Sheldon, and the whole country from the “Province Line” (and even

beyond it) to St. Alban’s was made merry with a succession of gay parties,

sleigh‐rides, dinners, suppers, and dances given in their honor. Even the

sequestered hamlets of Richford and Montgomery, nestled among their own

green hills, did not escape the general hilarity, but were startled from

their quiet decorum, and resounded with a merriment which awakened

unwonted echoes in their peaceful valleys.

Among the guests at this Christmas festival was a young lady of Vermont,

Miss Fanny A——, whose fair form rises before us as we write from the dim

mists of childhood’s earliest memories—a vision of gentle dignity and

youthful loveliness which time has no power to efface.

Though some years younger than the lady of the house, she was her very

dear and intimate friend, and was now passing a few weeks with her. Her

queenly manners, the silver ripple of her low, sweet voice in the flow of

a conversation which held her listeners spell‐bound, as it were, by its

clear and impressive utterances, bore witness to her familiarity with the

most refined circles of city and country society, and the high culture of

her splendid intellect.

Other circumstances, as will be seen, combined with her personal charms at

this time to make her the centre of interest and attraction wherever she

appeared.

She was the youngest daughter of a Green Mountain hero whom Vermont most

delights to honor. Her father died when she was too young to realize her

loss. Some years later, her mother—from whom she inherited her remarkable

beauty and graceful dignity—married a most amiable man, who was capable of

appreciating the rich treasure she committed to his charge in the person

of her young daughter. Every advantage the country offered was secured to

develop and polish the gem of which he was inexpressibly proud, and over

which he watched with a solicitude as tender as her own father could have

exercised.

At that time, the gay society in New England was strongly tinctured with

the species of infidelity introduced and fostered by the writings of

Thomas Paine and his disciples, among whom Fanny’s father had been

conspicuous. Her step‐father was not of that school, but he detested the

cant and Puritanism of the only religious people he had ever

known—regarding them as pretensions of which even those who adopted them

were often the unconscious dupes. He had never been drawn within reach of

better influences, then exercised only by the Protestant Episcopal Church

in Vermont, to rescue intelligent thinkers from the grasp of infidelity.

He conducted the education of his gifted daughter, therefore, with the

most scrupulous care to avoid entirely all considerations of religion in

any form. When her active and earnest mind would peer beyond the veil he

had so carefully drawn between its pursuits and the interests of eternity,

and send her to startle him with some question touching those interests

which he could only answer by evasive ridicule, or an emphatic request

that she would refrain from troubling her head about such matters, she

would retire to ponder within herself, even while striving to obey her

earthly father, the higher obligations imposed by One in heaven. Light and

wisdom from above soon illuminated the soul that surrendered itself a

willing victim before the altar of eternal truth. She was led by a divine

hand, through paths she knew not, to a temple of which she had scarcely

heard, and, while still living among those to whom the Catholic religion

was entirely unknown, entered its portals to find herself—scarcely less to

her own astonishment than to the amazement and horror of her devoted

parents—a Catholic, as firmly established and steadfastly resolved as if

she had been born and educated in the faith!

The grief and indignation of her parents knew no bounds. They looked upon

it as a most disgraceful infatuation. Peremptorily imposing silence upon

her in relation to the subject, they determined to suppress it, if

possible, until every means had been used to divert her mind from the

fatal delusion.

All the wiles and artifices of the gayest and most fashionable circles in

various American cities to which she was taken, were exhausted in vain to

captivate her youthful fancy and deliver her soul from its mysterious

thraldom. In vain the ardent addresses of devoted admirers—who were

destined in the near future to be the brightest ornaments the bench and

bar of their state could boast—were laid at her feet. In vain were all

those worldly allurements, generally so irresistible to the young, spread

before her. Her soul turned steadfastly away from each bewitching

enticement, to solace itself with thoughts of the humble sanctuary in

Montreal, where the weary bird had found a place in which she might build

her nest, even within the tabernacle of thy house, O Lord of hosts!

In the autumn preceding the Christmas festival of which I write, the

ramblers had returned from their fruitless wanderings. Fanny’s parents,

discouraged and discomfited, resolved at this crisis to enlist the zeal of

a few very intimate friends in their cause, by disclosing to them the

great and unaccountable calamity which had befallen their child.

Among those whom they earnestly entreated to aid them in efforts to

extricate her from the grasp of the great deceiver, was the lady with whom

she was now passing the weeks of the early winter. A Connecticut

Episcopalian of the High‐Church stamp, she occupied what they playfully

called a “half‐way house,” at which they hoped she would be able to

persuade Fanny to stop. She invited several gay young ladies to meet and

enliven Fanny’s visit, but took the greatest pains to conceal from them

the religious tendencies of her beautiful guest. She entered with great

zeal upon every scheme for winter pastimes, in the hope of diverting the

mind of her young friend from its absorbing theme. In their private

conversations, she exhausted every argument to convince Fanny that the

Episcopal Church offered all the consolations for which her soul was

yearning. In vain, in vain! She who had been called to drink from the

fountain‐head could not slake her thirst with draughts from scattered

pools, which brought no refreshment to her fainting spirit. Vain also were

the precautions used for concealment. Suspicions soon arose among her

young companions that there was something wrong with Fanny. A rosary had

been partially revealed as she drew her kerchief from her pocket. Worse

still, a crucifix had been discovered under her pillow! Here were proofs

of superstition indeed, of rank idolatry in unmistakable form, and no one

knows to what unimaginable extent! Then it began to be whispered around

the admiring and compassionate circle that she had not only taken the

first step on the downward road, but was even now contemplating the still

more fatal and final one of religious immolation!

It was their apprehension of this direful result which imparted a new and

melancholy interest in their eyes to all her words and actions. Though she

maintained a modest reserve upon the subjects dearest to her heart, they

thought they could discover some mysterious connection with these in every

expression she uttered.

On several occasions, the most adventurous of her companions endeavored to

penetrate the silence that sealed her lips in regard to her religious

convictions, by direct questions, and, when these failed, by ridicule of

such “absurd superstitions”; but to no purpose. Her nearest approach to

any satisfactory remark was in reply to one of these questions: “It is

impossible to convey any clear idea to your mind, in its present state,

concerning these matters. Your opinions are founded upon prejudice, and

your prejudices are the result of your entire ignorance in relation to

them. If you really desire to be better informed, you need, first of all,

to pray with humility for light and guidance, and then seek for knowledge.

If you do this with sincerity, you will surely be instructed, and ‘know of

the doctrine’; but, if you refuse to take this first step, all the

teaching in the world will be of no avail. ‘They have Moses and the

prophets; let them hear them. If they believe not Moses and the prophets,

neither would they believe though one should come to them from the

dead.’ ”

She rebuked ridicule with such calm dignity that it was soon abandoned,

one of her assailants, a very lively young lady, remarking one day: “It is

astonishing to see how terribly in earnest Fanny is! She certainly

believes in the Catholic religion with all her heart, though how a person

with her extensive information and splendid talents can receive such

absurdities is a puzzle to common sense!”

But her severe trials were in her home. Her parents were unutterably

grieved when she persisted in accepting the Catholic faith. This further

determination to forsake those who had so fondly loved and tenderly

cherished her, and who were so justly proud of the use she had made of the

opportunities for improvement which their solicitude had secured for her,

was beyond all human endurance.

If she had been the victim of adversity or of disappointed hopes, there

might have been some excuse; but that the idol of doting parents should

abandon her elegant home to the desolation in which her departure would

enshroud it, and turn from all the advantages that wealth, position, and

the homage of society could offer—dashing to the ground on the very

threshold of life the brilliant prospects which were opening before

her—was worse than madness! They complained bitterly to her of her

ingratitude and heartless disregard of their feelings and wishes; poured

unmeasured and contemptuous reproaches upon her for stifling the modest

womanly instincts of her refined and delicate nature, to strike out boldly

upon a new road hitherto untrodden by any woman of New England.

Remonstrances, pleading, reproaches, and contempt were alike unavailing.

Listening only to the persuasions of that “invisible Lover” whose voice

had called her to relinquish the seductive charms which surrounded her

worldly course, she turned away from them steadfastly to follow him and

carry his cross up the steep and thorny paths of penance and self‐

abnegation, offering herself entirely to him on the Calvary made glorious

to her by his precious blood.

Not “immediately,” however, like those whom he called of old, did she

“leave the ship and her father, to follow him.” Weary years of waiting and

yearning, far from the tabernacles where her soul had chosen its home, did

she accord in tender regard for the feelings of those, so truly and deeply

beloved, who could not give her up, and who had no clue by which to trace

the course her spirit was taking, or power even to conjecture the motives

that actuated her.

When at length the time arrived to which they had consented to limit her

stay with them, who shall describe the pangs that rent her heart in a

parting so full of grief; in severing these nearest and dearest ties, and

in witnessing the anguish which overwhelmed those around whom her

tenderest earthly affections were entwined?

Alone, but full of peace, “leaning on the arm of her Beloved,” did she

tread the painful path. Her parents could not accompany her to witness the

sacrifice which prostrated their fondest hopes, nor could they ever bring

themselves to visit her in the sanctuary she had chosen.

Her Sheldon friend did so repeatedly, and was amazed to find her radiant

with a joy which her countenance had never before revealed—happy in the

peaceful home that offered only poverty and an unceasing round of labors

in the service of the sick and suffering, with a happiness which the

splendors of her worldly one could never impart.

Multitudes of New England people visiting Montreal flocked to the convent,

begging to see the lovely young nun of the Hôtel Dieu, who was the first

daughter New England had given to the sacred enclosure, and whom they

claimed as belonging especially to them through her connection with their

favorite Revolutionary hero.

So continual were these interruptions that she was driven at length to

obtain the permission of the mother‐superior absolutely to decline

appearing in answer to such calls, except when they were made by the

friends of former days, for whom she still preserved and cherished the

liveliest affection.

By a singular coincidence—or rather, let us say, through tender memories

of the gentle nun long since departed from the Hôtel Dieu, and the

prevailing efficacy of her prayers—a large proportion of those who were

present at the Christmas party at Sheldon, including the mistress of the

feast and many of her family, were, from time to time as years flew by,

received into the bosom of the Holy Catholic Church.

And so does our gracious and mighty Mother, “ever ancient, ever new,” win

her triumphs, one by one, perpetually through all the ages—wins them often

in the face, nay, even perforce, of circumstances apparently the most

directly opposed to her influence; accomplishes them by means so weak and

simple as would seem, according to all human reasoning, utterly

inadequate. In countries far remote from her gentle influence, one is

called—we hardly know how or why—in this place, another in that, as if the

words of our divine Lord found their fulfilment even in this: “Two shall

be in the field: one shall be taken, and one shall be left. Two women

shall be grinding at the mill: one shall be taken, and one shall be left.”

And every soul thus called to launch its eternal interests upon the ocean

of infinite truth must encounter much the same appalling trials, be

haunted by the same startling doubts and dark forebodings. Over the sunken

rocks of heresy and unbelief along this coast the billows break with a

force that affrights the stoutest heart, and many a would‐be voyager

shrinks back dismayed before their power; but once pluck up heart of grace

to pass the foaming barrier, in the mid‐ocean all is “peace, and joy

unspeakable, and full of glory.”

We cannot more fitly conclude this little sketch of a real event than by a

quotation from Montalembert’s closing chapter on the “Anglo‐Saxon Nuns”:

“Is this a dream, the page of a romance? Is it only history—the history of

a past for ever ended? No; once more it is what we behold and what happens

amongst us every day.... Who, then, is this invisible Lover, dead upon a

cross eighteen hundred years ago, who thus attracts to him youth, beauty,

and love?—who appears to them clothed with a glory and a charm which they

cannot withstand?—who seizes on the living flesh of our flesh, and drains

the purest blood of our blood? Is it a man? No; it is God. There lies the

secret, there the key of this sublime and sad mystery. God alone could win

such victories and deserve such sacrifices. Jesus, whose godhead is

amongst us daily insulted or denied, proves it daily, with a thousand

other proofs, by those miracles of self‐denial and self‐devotion which are

called vocations. Young and innocent hearts give themselves to him, to

reward him for the gift he has given us of himself; and this sacrifice by

which we are crucified is but the answer of human love to the love of that

God who was crucified for us.”

The House That Jack Built.

By The Author Of “The House Of Yorke.”

In Two Parts.

PART II.

Concluded.

Late in the afternoon, Bessie went down and leaned on the bars again,

looking up and down the road, looking at the tracks left by Father

Conners’ carriage‐wheels—the smooth curve of their turning; looking to see

the shadows creep across the road as the sun went down. The sadness of a

lonely evening was upon her, and, though she had not lost her morning

resolution, she had lost the joyous hopefulness with which those

resolutions were made.

At her left, and quite near, a fringe of young cedars made a screen

between the ground that belonged to her house and the farmer next to it,

where her uncle Dennis had lived when John Maynard had wooed and won her.

Pain came with that recollection, and almost the old bitterness. “I must

go home again, and put my resolutions in practice right away, or I shall

lose them,” she said to herself. “It won’t do for me to stay here and

brood over my troubles. I cannot bear loneliness; and how terribly lonely

it is here! I wish I had some one to speak to besides poor Aunt Nancy.”

She started, hearing a soft, clear whistling not far away. The strain was

familiar, not to this region, but to her city life. While she listened,

the sound ceased, or rather broke off suddenly.

Bessie’s eyes were wide open, her face flushed. Was there more than one

person who could whistle so marvellously clearly and sweetly?

Some one began to sing then more sweetly still, and coming nearer while he

sang words written by the most melodious of poets:

“Hark! a lover, binding sheaves,

To his maiden sings;

Flutter, flutter go the leaves,

Larks drop their wings.

Little brooks, for all their mirth,

Are not blithe as he!

‘Tell me what the love is worth

That I give thee.’

“Speech that cannot be forborne

Tells the story through:

‘I sowed my love in with the corn,

And they both grew.

Count the world full wide of girth,

And hived honey sweet;

But count the love of more worth

Laid at thy feet.

“ ‘Money’s worth is house and land,

Velvet coat and vest!

Work’s worth is bread in hand,

Ay, and sweet rest.

Wilt thou learn what love is worth?

Ah! she sits above,

Sighing, ’Weigh me not with earth.

Love’s worth is love!’ ”

The singer had come yet more near, and would have been visible to her had

not Bessie Maynard’s looks been downcast and her head drooping low. When

the song ended, and the step paused, she lifted her eyes, and saw James

Keene standing before her smiling and waiting for the greeting she was so

slow to give.

Surprise, and perhaps fear, deprived Bessie for a moment of her self‐

possession. “What! you here!” she exclaimed, without the least sign of

courtesy; and with that exclamation broke down the barrier of silence that

had existed between them.

“Why should I not be here?” he asked quietly. “May not I also have

memories connected with this place? It was here I recovered health, after

an illness that nearly cost me my life. It was here I shot my first bear.

And it was here I first saw you.”

Bessie perceived at once that, if the old reserve was to be maintained,

she must immediately assume an air of decisive politeness. For an instant

she wavered. Silence may be best for those who are doubtful of themselves,

and, not willing to commit any flagrant wrong, are still not resolved to

be absolutely honest. But when we are strong in the determination to be

sincere, and to let the light of day shine not only on our actions, but on

our inmost thoughts, then, perhaps, by speech we may most nobly and

effectually establish our position.

Bessie Maynard, therefore, waited for the words which would give her an

opportunity to put an end to the tacit and vague understanding existing

between them.

He read her silence rightly; it was a command for him to speak; and he

obeyed it, though the pale face and large, downcast lids gave little hope

of any such answer as he might wish to receive.

“In those old days, so long ago, when I came here to try what a half‐

savage life would do for me, and was astonished to find a delicate human

flower in the wilderness, I was a prophet.”

He leaned on the cedar bar that separated them, and looked dreamily off

toward the woods. He would not surprise in her face any involuntary

expression she might wish to conceal from him; he would take advantage of

no impulse. If she came to him, she must come deliberately. For, setting

aside Christianity—and he did not pretend to believe in it—James Keene had

an exceptionally honorable nature. He would gladly have taken this woman

away from a husband who, he believed, knew not how to value her, and who

made her miserable by his neglect, but he held that it would be no wrong

for him to do so.

“Yes, I was a prophet,” he continued; “for I believed then, what I am sure

of now, that your marriage was a most unwise one. Give me credit, Bessie,

for having been sincerely pained to see that, as years passed away, you

had reason to come to the same conclusion. Whatever selfish wishes I may

have had, I would at any time have renounced them could I have seen you

happy with the man you chose to marry, knowing no other.”

Bessie lifted her eyes, and looked at him with a steady, tearful gaze.

“People might say that you are wicked to speak so to me,” she said; “but I

think that, according to your belief, you are very good; only you have no

faith in religion. I esteem you so highly that I am going to make a

confession which, perhaps, you may think I ought not to make. There have

been times during these last few years when, if I had not had some little

lingering faith, I would have welcomed from you an affection which I have

no right to receive. There have been times when you might have spoken as

lovingly as you could, and I should not have been angry. I tell you this

partly because you must have at least suspected that it was so. And more

than this. If I had seen you here a few days ago, my impulse would have

been to welcome you more ardently than I ever yet welcomed any friend. You

can understand how it all has been, without my explaining. I was so

lonely, so neglected! I was so lonely!”

She had spoken with a sad earnestness, and there was something touchingly

humble yet dignified in her manner; but, at the last words, her voice

trembled and failed.

He was looking at her now. Excitement and suspense showed in the sparkling

of his clear blue eyes, in the slight flush that colored his usually pale

face, in the lips firmly compressed.

“All is changed now,” she went on. “I have been recalled to my religion,

to my duty. I do not think that you should any more show me that sympathy

which you have shown, and I do not think that you should see me

frequently. I thank you for your kindness toward me. It has often been a

comfort. But I am a wife”—she lifted herself with a stately gesture, and

for the first time a wave of proud color swept over her face—“and the

sadness which my husband may cause me no other man may ever again soothe.”

There was silence for a moment. The gentleman’s face had grown pale. There

was a boundless tenderness in his heart for this fair and sorrowful woman,

and he was about to lose the power to offer her even the slightest

comfort, while at the same time he must still retain the knowledge of her

suffering.

“I shall respect your wish and your decision,” he said, with emotion.

“Forgive me if I have trespassed too much in the past. It seemed to me

very little; for, Bessie, if I had not known that you had a religious

feeling which would have held you back, or would have made you miserable

in yielding, I should long ago have held out my hand to you, and asked you

to come to me. If I had felt sure of being able to convince you beyond the

possibility of subsequent regret, I should not have kept silence so long.

But I respect your conscience. I should esteem myself a criminal if I

could ask you to do what you believe to be wrong.”

Bessie Maynard’s face was covered with a blush of shame. Her thought had

never gone consciously beyond the length of tender, brotherly kindness,

and it was cruelly humiliating to see in its true light the position in

which she had really stood. At that moment, too, she first perceived what

a gulf lay between her soul and that of the man who had seemed always so

dangerously harmonious with her. In principle, in all that firmly

underlies the changeful tide of feeling, they were antagonistic; for he

could speak calmly and with dignity of a possibility from which she shrank

with a protesting tremor in every fibre of her being.

“I am going back to my husband,” she said, “and I shall never again forget

that his honor and dignity are mine. I have been weak and childish, and

more wicked than I knew or meant, and it all came because I loved my

husband too much and God too little. But I trust”—she clasped her hands,

and lifted her eyes—“I trust that I shall have strength to begin now a new

life, and correct the mistakes of the past.”

She forgot for a moment that she was not alone, and stood looking away, as

if there stretched before her gaze the new and loftier pathway in which

she was to tread. Her companion gazed at her unchecked, with searching,

melancholy eyes, not more because she was dearer to him in her impregnable

fortress of Christian will than she ever had been in her human weakness,

than because there rose from the depths of his restless soul a cry of

longing for that firm foundation and trust which can hold a man in the

place where conscience sets him, no matter how the tempests of passion may

beat upon his trembling heart.

“There is, then, nothing left me but to say farewell.”

The poignant regret his voice betrayed recalled her attention.

“It has come to that,” she said gently. “But if you could know all I mean

in saying farewell to you, it would not seem an idle word; for I hope and

pray that you may fare so well as to come before long into the church. It

is a refuge from every danger and every trouble, and I have only just

found it out! Good‐by.”

She gave him her hand, and they separated without another word. But Bessie

did not stop to look after this visitor. Whatever regret she might

otherwise have felt was swallowed up in the one thought—it had seemed to

him possible that she might leave, not only her husband, but her sacred,

sainted babes, and go to him! To what a depth had she fallen!

When she had disappeared in the house, he strolled slowly down the road.

Unless you had looked in his face, you would have taken him for a man who

was calmly enjoying the contemplation of nature in that forest solitude.

But from his face looked forth a spirit weary and hopeless that hastened

not, because it beheld nowhere a place worth making haste to reach. Once

only the gloom of his countenance lifted, and then it was with no cheering

brightness, but as the cloud is momentarily illuminated by angry

lightning.

A man was coming up the road, not such a man as one usually sees in these

wild places, but one who bore the marks of city training and habits. The

uniform gray clothing, the wide Panama hat, even the unobtrusive necktie,

belonged to the city. This man was taller and broader‐shouldered than he

whose eyes flashed out so scornfully at sight of him. His face was dark,

vivid, and clean‐shaven, the forehead was wide, the dark‐brown hair

closely cut, the gray eyes clear and penetrating. It was a face fitter to

carve in stone than to paint, for its color and expression were less

noticeable than its fine, strong outlines.

Yet now there shone a soft and eager light over that granite strength.

There was a look of glad surprise, mingled with a certain amused self‐

chiding, as though of one who comes back from a long and gloomy

abstraction, and finds a half‐forgotten delight still waiting at his side.

At sight of this man, James Keene’s first emotion had been one of anger,

his first impulse to meet him boldly and with scorn. But scarcely had he

taken one quickened step before he stopped, with a revulsion of feeling as

unsuspected as it was confounding. Reason as he might, emancipate himself

as he might from what he considered the superstitions of religion, he

found himself now overwhelmed with confusion. He strove to call up to his

mind all those arguments on which he had founded himself, but they fell

dead. Whether it was the instinct of a noble heart that would not betray

even an enemy, or an irradicable root of that religious faith which had

been implanted in his childhood, or the strangeness of one who for the

first time acts on principles long maintained in theory, or only a

sensitive perception of the esteem in which the faithful world would hold

his action, he could not have told. He only knew that, instead of

standing, lofty and serene, in the dawn of this new light before which

superstition and oppression were to pass away, he felt as if he were

surrounded by a baleful glare from the nether fires. Sudden and scathing,

it caught him, and burned his courage out like chaff.

In his eagerness and preoccupation, John Maynard had scarcely observed the

person who approached; and, when the stranger turned aside into a wood‐

path, he gave him no further thought.

There was the little crooked house squinting at him out of its two

windows, with the boards he had nailed, the chimney he had built, the door

he had hung; there was the whole wild, rude place, with everything askew,

that had once seemed a paradise—that had been a paradise—to him. With his

hands and eyes educated, as they were now, to the utmost precision of

outline and balance, the sight made him laugh out; and yet the laugh

expressed as much pleasure as mockery.

He was taking his first holiday since he had left this house, and

everything was delightfully fresh and novel yet familiar to him. He did

not see the beauty that a poet or a painter would have found in that

unpruned rusticity, for he was an artist of the exact; but the wabbly

frame‐house, the reeling fences, the road that wound irregularly, the

straggling trees that leaned away from the northwest, made a good

background against which to contemplate the trim and shining creatures of

his hands, regular to a hair’s breadth, unvarying and direct.

Coming to the bars, he threw himself over instead of letting them down,

and found that he had grown heavier and less lithe than he was when last

he performed that feat. He walked up the rocky path, his heart beating

fast as he thought of the old time, and of the slim, bright‐faced girl he

had brought there as a bride. If she could stand in the doorway now, as

she was then, and smile at him coming home, he felt that he could be the

old lover again. He had a vague idea that Bessie had grown older, and

sober, and pale. Come to think of it, he hadn’t known much of her lately,

and she had been dissatisfied about something. Why had she allowed him to

get his eyes and ears so full of machinery? Surely he had lost and

overlooked much. He had a mind to complain of her, only that he felt so

good‐natured.

At sound of a step, Aunt Nancy went to the door; but at that sound Bessie

took her sewing, and bent over it. Had James Keene repented their hasty

parting?

“Does Miss Bessie Ware live here?” asked the gentleman, with immense

dignity.

“Bessie Ware?” repeated Aunt Nancy, in bewilderment; then, as the

recollection of Bessie’s confessions flashed into her mind, she stiffened

herself up, and answered severely: “No, sir, she does not!”

“The idea of his refusing to give her her husband’s name!” she thought

indignantly.

“Why, John!” exclaimed Bessie, over the old lady’s shoulder.

Aunt Nancy gave a cry of delight. She would at any time have welcomed John

rapturously; but his coming now made her twice glad. Of course he and

Bessie would make it all up.

The exuberance of her welcome covered, at first, the wife’s deficiency.

But when the excitement was over, and they had gone into the house,

Bessie’s coldness and embarrassment became evident.

“I am very much surprised to see you here,” she said, when her husband

looked at her. She did not pretend to be glad.

“Are you sorry?” he asked, with a laugh.

“I am too much astonished to be anything else,” she replied quietly. “What

made you come?”

John Maynard was disappointed and mortified. That for years he had met his

wife’s affectionate advances as coldly he did not seem aware. Other things

had occupied his thoughts. He did not recollect, as he had not noticed at

the time, that her manner was now just what it had long been.

Supper was over, eaten in an absent way by the husband, who glanced every

moment at his wife. He found her very lovely, though different enough from

the glad, girlish bride who had once brightened this humble room for him.

He could not understand her. Had she no recollection of those days?

She did not seem to have, indeed, for she made no reference to them by

look nor speech, but talked rapidly, and with an air of constraint, of

things nearer in time, and listened with affected interest while he told

the latest city news, and the latest news of his own work; how high the

engine spouted; of the tiny model locomotive he had built, all silver, and

gold, and fine steel; of the money he expected to make by his new patent;

of an accident that had happened in his shop—a German organist, with two

or three others, had come to look at his machinery, and got his hand

crushed in it, which would put a stop to his playing.

Bessie looked up with an expression of pain. “Poor man!” she murmured.

“How miserable he must be!”

“Yes; I was sorry for him,” the husband replied. “They say he cared for

nothing but music. His name is Verheyden.”

“Poor man!” Bessie sighed again, looking down. “Those machines are always

hurting some one.”

“It was his own fault,” the machinist said hastily. “Did he suppose that

the engine was going to stop when he put his forefinger on it? Why, that

machine would grind up an elephant, and never mismake its face. But it is

the first time any one was ever hurt by a machine of mine.”

He did not understand the glance she gave him. It was not pleasant, but

what it meant he knew not. She was thinking: “It is not the first time one

has been hurt so.”

Aunt Nancy found business elsewhere, and left the couple to themselves.

“I forgot you were coming away that day, Bessie,” her husband said

hastily, the moment they were alone. “I never thought of it till I was

five miles off, and then I concluded that you must have changed your mind,

or you would have told me not to go.”

“You know I never tell you not to go anywhere,” she replied coldly.

He colored. “But you know that I didn’t mean to have you go to the depot

alone. When I read what you wrote to Jamie, I felt sorry enough.”

In all the long years that were past, how generously would she have met an

apology like this! How quickly would she have disclaimed all sense of

injury, and even have tried to find some fault in herself! But now her

heart, with all its impulses, seemed frozen. She only gave him a glance of

surprise, and a quiet word. “There was no need of company, I knew the

way.”

There was silence. Gradually, through the deep unconsciousness and

abstraction of the man, came out incident after incident of their late

life, slight, but significant. Each had seemed a detached trifle at the

time, but now as he sat there, abashed and ill at ease, they began to show

a connection and to grow in importance. It was as when, in a thick fog,

the sailor sees dimly a black speck that may be only a floating stick, and

another, and another, till, looking sharply, as the mist grows thinner, he

finds himself caught among rocks at low tide.

John Maynard tried to throw off with a laugh the weight that oppressed

him. “Come, Bessie, let the late past go, and remember only the life we

lived here. Let’s be young people again.”

He went to her side, bent down, and would have kissed her, had she not

evaded his touch, not shyly, but with a crimson blush and a quick flash of

the eyes.

“Don’t talk nonsense, John!” she said, in a low voice that did not hide a

haughty aversion. “Let us speak of something sensible. I have been

thinking that some of our ways should be changed at home. I shall begin

with myself, and attend strictly to my religion. Besides, I am not doing

rightly in allowing James to grow up without any discipline, and I think

he should be placed in a Catholic school, where he will be taught his

duty. He is quite beyond my control.”

Her morbid humility and diffidence were gone. The feeling that had made

her give up all rights rather than ask for them did not outlive the moment

of her reconciliation with the church.

“I am willing he should go to any school you choose,” her husband replied

gravely, impressed by the change. “I suppose the boy is going on rather

too much as he likes. Do whatever you think best about it, and I will see

that he obeys.”

She thanked him gently, and continued: “I shall go to High Mass after

this, and I should be glad to have you go with me, if you are willing. It

would be a better example for James than to see you go to the shop on

Sundays. He is becoming quite lawless. We have no right to give our

children a bad example. I would be glad to have you go with me, if you

will.”

John Maynard’s face was glowing red. He felt, gently as she spoke, as if

he were having the law read to him. “I am willing to go with you, Bessie,”

he said. “I am not a Catholic, but I am not anything else.”

She thanked him again, earnestly this time, for it was a favor he had

granted her, and she knew that he would keep his word. “You are good to

promise that,” she said.

He laughed uneasily. “Have you anything else to ask?”

“I do not think of anything,” she replied, and there was silence.

The husband got up, and went to the door. The sun was sinking down the

west. He looked at the glow it made, and remembered how he had seen it

there in the days that were past, how quiet and peaceful his life had

been, how much happier, had he but known it, than in the turmoil of later

years. Then the days had been full of healthful employment, the nights of

rest and refreshment, untroubled by the feverish dreams that now swarmed

in his sleeping hours. And what was it that had made his life so happy?

What had been the motive, the delight of everything? Nothing but Bessie,

always Bessie, his help and his reward.

He turned his face, and saw her still sitting there, her head drooping,

her hands folded in her lap. Those hands caught his glance. They were pale

and thin. They looked as though she had suffered.

He went to her impulsively as his heart stirred, and put his arm about her

shoulder. “Bessie, forget the last years, and let’s be as we were in the

happy old time.”

She did not look angry; but she withdrew herself gently from him.

“John,” she said, “that is too much to expect at once. Years of pain

cannot be forgotten in a moment. When you came to‐day, you asked if Bessie

Ware lived here. She does not. The Bessie Ware you married is dead. I

scarcely know yet who or what I am. I only know that I shall try to do my

duty by you, and repair some of the faults and mistakes of the past. But,

John, I must warn you that it is harder to reconcile an estranged wife

than to win a bride.”

One piercing glance, angry and disappointed, shot from his eyes; then he

went to the outer door. He stood a moment on the threshold, then stepped

on to the greensward. Another pause, and he walked slowly back through the

garden, seeming not to know whither he went.

Aunt Nancy, anxiously awaiting signs of reconciliation, saw him wander

about aimlessly, then go and lean on a fence next the woods, his back to

the house.

She went into the front room at once. She was on John’s side now.

“Bessie,” she said decidedly, “you mustn’t stand too much on your dignity

with John. Men are stupid creatures, and do a good many hard things

without meaning or knowing; and, if they come round, it isn’t wise to keep

them waiting too long for a kind word.”

Bessie Maynard laid down the work she was pretending to do, and her hands

trembled. “I am not acting a part, Aunt Nancy,” she said, “and I cannot be

a hypocrite. I feel cold toward John. And I feel displeased when he comes

and kisses me, as if he were conferring a favor, and expects me to be

happy for that. I could not give up if I would, I ought not if I could.

There is something more required than a little sweet talk.”

A half hour passed, and still John Maynard stood motionless, with his

elbows leaning on the fence, and his head bowed. If Bessie had seen his

face, it would have reminded her of the time when he first studied

mechanics, and became so absorbed in the one subject as to be dead to all

else. But there was the difference that he studied then with a vivid

interest, and now with gloomy intentness.

An hour passed, and still he stood there; and the sun was down, and the

moon beginning to show its pearly light through the fading richness of the

gloaming. The birds had ceased singing, and there was no voice of wild

creatures in the woods. It was the hour for prayer and peace‐making.

John Maynard started from his abstraction, hearing his name spoken by some

one. “John!” said Bessie. She had been watching him for some time from the

door, and had approached slowly, step by step, unheard by him.

He turned toward her a pale, unsmiling face. “How late it is!” he said. “I

must make haste.”

She spoke hesitatingly, something doubtful and wistful in her face. “I

have been thinking that I might have received you better, when you came on

this long journey. Won’t you come in now and rest? I didn’t mean to turn

you out of the house that you made—for me.”

He turned his eyes away. “And I’ve been thinking, Bessie, that I’d better

go right back again; I can go down to the post‐office to‐night, and take

the stage to‐morrow morning.”

“You will not go!” she said.

“I should only spoil your visit,” he went on. “I don’t want you to begin

to ‘do your duty’ by me just now. I know, Bessie, that you had a good deal

to complain of; but I swear to you that I did not mean to be hard. You

know I had twenty‐five years to make up; and I was always looking for

better times. I was so blind that I was fool enough to think you would be

glad to see me here, and that we could begin over again where we began

first.”

She did not answer a word. There is something confounding in the sudden

humiliation of a man who has always been almost contemptuously dominant.

He looked at his watch. “I must make haste, or they will be in bed,” he

said. “Make some sort of an excuse to Aunt Nancy for me. And when you want

to come back, let me know, and I will meet you at the depot or come after

you.”

He started, and she walked beside him down the path to the road. He seemed

hardly able to hold his head up.

She walked nearer, and slipped her hand in his arm, speaking softly: “I

said a little while ago that the pain of years cannot be forgotten in a

moment. But I was wrong. I think it may.”

He looked at her quickly, but said nothing, and they reached the bars.

Neither made any motion to let down the pole. They leaned on it a minute

in silence.

“The fact is, Bessie,” the husband burst forth, “I’ve been like a man

possessed by an evil spirit. I’m sorry, and that is all I can say.”

“No matter, Jack! Let it all go!” his wife exclaimed, clasping her hands

on his arm, and holding it close to him. “You weren’t to blame!” (Oh!

wonderful feminine consistency!) “Let’s forget everything unpleasant, and

remember only the good. How you have had to work and study, poor, dear

Jack! You must rest now, and never get into the old drudging way again.”

Aunt Nancy raked up the fire, and put down the window, looking out now and

then at the couple who leaned on the bar below. Each time she looked,

their forms were less distinct in the twilight. “That’s just the way they

used to do fifteen years ago,” she muttered contentedly.

She sat a few minutes waiting, but they did not come in. Aunt Nancy sighed

and laughed too. “It beats all how women do change their minds,” she said.

“I did think that Bessie would hold out longer. Well, I may as well go to

bed.”

By‐and‐by she heard them come into the kitchen.

“Now, I shut the doors and windows, and you rake up the fire,” Bessie

said. “Do you remember it was always so, Jack?”

“Of course I do, little one,” was the answer. “But Aunt Nancy has got the

start of us to‐night.”

“Aunt Nancy!” repeated Bessie, in a lower voice. “I declare, Jack, I

forgot all about her.”

“I’ll warrant you did!” says Aunt Nancy to herself, rather grimly,

perhaps.

“We will be sure to keep all our good resolutions, won’t we?” Bessie said.

“All right!” says John.

The door shut softly behind them, and there were silence, and peace, and

hope in the house that Jack built.

A Retrospect.

Concluded.

Nothing of interest presented itself during the reign of Philip the Bold,

except the council held there in 1278. In 1383, the unfortunate Charles

VI., wearied with state troubles that he was so ill fitted to cope with,

fled in despair from the Louvre to Compiègne. But he was not to find peace

here more than in the busy turmoil of the city. Soon after his arrival he

was attacked with insanity; at first it was considered of no moment, the

natural consequence of a violent reaction or a weak and nervous

temperament; great pains were taken to conceal the fact from the public,

but after a time the symptoms became alarming, and it was impossible to

keep the secret. After the festivities which followed his ill‐starred

marriage with Isabeau de Bavière, the disease broke through all bounds;

everything seemed to conspire to exasperate it: the assassination of

Clisson by the Baron de Craon, the apparition of the phantom in the forest

that seized the king’s bridle and uttered the mysterious message as it

disappeared, the bal masqué when the Duke of Orleans inadvertently set

fire to the king’s Indian costume—a skin smeared with a tarry substance

and stuck all over with feathers—all these shocks, coming at short

intervals, irritated the disordered imagination to fury, and the attacks

became frequent and ungovernable. The king’s illness was imputed by

popular superstition to the malefices of Valentina of Milan, Duchess of

Orleans, who, if she lacked the power, no doubt had strong motives for

evoking the powers of darkness to destroy the king’s reason, and thereby

his authority. The demon which had taken possession of Charles’ brain does

not seem to have invaded his heart or changed the natural goodness of his

disposition. He was removed from Compiègne in one of his fits of madness,

and when some years later he re‐entered it, it was by force of arms; the

Bourguignons held the place. Charles laid siege to it; after a desperate

resistance it surrendered, and he entered in triumph; nothing however

could induce him to punish the rebels, he said there was blood enough upon

the ground, and he would take no vengeance on his subjects except by

forgiving them. Compiègne was soon to be the theatre of a more momentous

struggle than these rough skirmishes between Charles and his people.

Shortly after the mock peace signed there by Bedford, it was attacked by

the Duc de Bourgogne and the English with Montgomery at their head. Jeanne

d’Arc on hearing of it evinced great sorrow and alarm, but she flew at

once to the rescue, and appeared suddenly in the midst of the king’s

troops, with the oriflamme of S. Denis in one hand, and her “good sword of

liege” in the other. The sight of her whom they looked upon as the angel

of victory raised the drooping spirits of the soldiers and filled them

with new ardor; they raised a cry of victory the moment they beheld

Jeanne. Enguerrand de Monstrelet, who was an eye‐witness of the siege,

describes her attitude and the conduct of the troops throughout as

“passing all heroism ever before seen in battle.” But, alas! the star of

the maid of Orleans was destined to set in darkness at the hour of its

greatest splendor; her own prediction, so often repeated to Charles and

those around him, “Un homme me vendra” (A man will betray me), was about

to be fulfilled. On the 24th of May, 1429, there was a formidable

engagement between the two armies. Jeanne, at the head of hers, performed

prodigies of valor; after a brilliant sortie in which the enemy were

repulsed, she was re‐entering the town by the Boulevard du Pont, and had

almost reached the barrier through which hundreds of her own victorious

soldiers had already passed, when, lo! the gates swing forward on their

hinges, and are closed against her! The maiden’s cry of despair as she

raised her sword and stretched both arms towards the gates was echoed by a

yell of fiendish joy from the enemy; in an instant she was surrounded,

disarmed, and taken captive by Montgomery. Guillaume de Flavy, governor of

Compiègne, was accused of having committed this act of treachery, bribed

by Jean de Luxembourg. If the accusation be true, and it has never been

seriously challenged, the traitor’s punishment was as fitting as it was

merited; he was immediately destituted of his office and revenues by the

Connétable de Richemont, and driven to hide his base head in private life,

where the Nemesis who was to avenge Jeanne d’Arc awaited him in the shape

of his wife; she was jealous of her husband, who, it would seem, fully

justified the fact; after leading him a miserable life and failing to

convert him by slow torture from his evil ways, she bribed the barber to

cut his throat one morning while shaving him, and finished the operation

herself by smothering him under a pillow. For many years de Flavy’s effigy

was burnt regularly at Compiègne on the 24th of May.

Louis XI. was liberated from the English, and came to Compiègne time

enough to embitter the last days of his father, Charles VIII., who let

himself die of hunger there from terror of being poisoned by his son.

Comines says that his dutiful son and most amiable of men was so irritated

by his courtiers for mocking “his boorish manners, his uncouth dress, and

his taste for low folk,” that to spite them he published an edict

forbidding them to hunt or touch the game in the forest of Compiègne, a

prohibition against all precedent, nor did he ever invite them to join him

there in the chase. But the pretty palace open to the four winds of heaven

soon grew distasteful to him, and he forsook it for the more congenial

retreat of Plessis‐les‐Tours, where, surrounded by spies and quacks and a

moat filled with vipers and venomous snakes, he ended in terror and

suffering a life which presents a strange mixture of shrewdness and

credulity, bonhomie and ferocity, impiety and the grossest superstition.

Francis I. took kindly to Compiègne, which had been deserted by his two

predecessors. His first act on coming there, as king, was to do public

homage to the Holy Shroud. Louis, Cardinal de Bourbon, grand‐uncle to the

king, and abbot of S. Corneille, exposed it to the veneration of the king

and the people amidst great ceremony and prayer of thanksgiving. “He took

the holy relic, and laid it on the grand altar with sentiments of great

devotion and tenderness, which he expressed by abundant tears.” Francis

added to the shrine “twenty‐two rose‐buds of pure gold, enriched with

precious stones and pearls, and attached to twenty _fleurs‐de‐lys_ of

gold,” says Cambry, in his _Déscription de l’Oise_. There is also a letter

of Francis’ giving a naïve account of the ceremony, quoted at length in

the _Histoire du Saint Suaire de Compiègne_. Francis passes from the

scene, and we see “the noble burgesses of Compiègne,” as he was fond

himself of calling them, making great stir to receive his successor, Henri

II., on his return from Rheims. Two years more, and there is the same

merry hubbub, and the town is in gala dress to welcome Catherine de

Medicis on her marriage. This abnormal type of a woman fell ill not long

after her arrival, and vowed that if she recovered she would send a

pilgrim to Jerusalem to give thanks for her; he was to start from

Compiègne, and perform the journey all the way on foot, making for every

three steps forward one step backward. Cambry says the vicarious

pilgrimage was “faithfully executed according to the queen’s vow.”

Charles IX. was only a flying visitor at Compiègne. An odd story is told

by D. Carlier and others as occurring there during his time. A man was

discovered in the forest who had been brought up by the wolves, and taken

so completely to their way of life that he had nearly turned into a wolf

himself. “He was hairy like a wolf, howled, outran the hounds at the hunt,

walked on all fours, strangled dogs, tore and devoured them.” For a time

he made sport for the people, who hunted him like other game, but having

shown a propensity to deal with men as he did with dogs, they laid a trap

for him, chained him, and took him before the king. Charles, more humane

than the noble burgesses, refused to have him killed, but ordered him to

be shorn and confined in a monastery. “What reflections,” naïvely exclaims

D. Carlier, “does not this incident suggest on the danger of bad example,

and the pernicious effects of evil society!” It would be interesting to

hear how the novice behaved himself in his new position, whether he

developed any latent dispositions for the mystic life, and quite left

behind him the habits of his early education which had corrupted his good

manners; but of this D. Carlier says nothing.

Henri III., who lived at St. Cloud making omelets, expressed a wish to be

buried near the Holy Shroud at Compiègne, in the church of S. Corneille;

and as soon as Henri IV. became master of his “good town of Paris” he

faithfully carried out this wish. Owing, however, to the dilapidated state

of the finances, he could not do so with the proper ceremonial. “It was

pitiful,” says Cheverny, in his _Memoirs_, “to see the greatest king of

the earth in a _chapelle ardente_ with only one lamp, one chaplain

belonging to the late king, named La Cesnaye, and a few shabby _écus_ to

keep up a shabby service.” Instead of being removed to S. Denis after a

temporary rest near the Holy Shroud, the body remained on in the vaults of

S. Corneille, on account of a prophecy which said that Henri IV. would be

buried eight days after Henri III.; a prediction which was actually

accomplished, “though not,” says Bajin, “in a manner apprehended by the

king”. When Henri IV. fell by the hand of Ravaillac, the Due d’Epernon

advised Marie de Medicis to have the obsequies of the late king performed

before those of her husband. Henri IV. was therefore kept waiting till his

predecessor’s grave was filled. The first ceremony was performed quietly,

almost in secret; and then the “good Béarnias” was taken to S. Denis, all

France weeping and refusing to be comforted.

Louis XIII. was attracted to Compiègne solely by the pleasures of the

chase. We see him watching the meet from a window giving on the Cour

d’honneur, and whispering to the Maréchal de Praslin, “You see that man

down there? He wants to be one of my council, but I cannot make up my mind

to name him.” “That man” was Richelieu. The words were repeated to Marie

de Medicis, as all her son’s words seem to have been, and she, counting on

the prelate’s influence in supporting her against the king and her other

enemies, vowed that he should be named, and so he was. A few days later we

see Louis, equipped in his hunting costume, stride into the room of the

queen‐mother, and proclaim in a boistering manner, meant to vindicate the

independence of his choice, that he “had named the Bishop of Luçon member

of his council as secretary of state.” Marie de Medicis looks coolly

surprised, and bows her approval. By‐and‐by we have the Earl of Carlisle

and Lord Holland presenting themselves at Compiègne to solicit the hand of

Henriette of France for the Prince of Wales. They are received with every

mark of cordial good‐will on the part of Louis and entertained with great

splendor; but Richelieu looked askance on their mission; it was his way to

begin always by mistrusting an offer, whether it came from friend or foe;

in this case his piety was alarmed for Henriette’s faith, and he suspected

England of some sinister design in seeking alliance with France. Louis,

however, overruled his fears and scruples, and the minister contented

himself with taking extraordinary precautions to ensure to the princess by

contract the free exercise of her religion, stipulating that she should

have in all her chateaux a chapel “large enough to hold as many people as

she pleased.” The marriage was celebrated by proxy at Notre Dame,

Buckingham representing the Prince of Wales, and from thence the court

escorted the bridal party on their way as far as Compiègne. Louis XIII.,

though he made but short sojourns at the palace, kept up close and

friendly intercourse with the inhabitants, writing to them himself when

any important event took place. He announced to them, for instance, the

siege of Rochelle, the war with the Spaniards, the peace with England, and

many other events in which the honor and safety of the state were

interested.

Louis XIV. was only eight years old when he paid his first visit to

Compiègne, accompanied by his little brother the Duc d’Anjou and the Queen

Regent; they were obliged to seek hospitality from the monks of S.

Corneille, because the Carmelite nuns were at the palace, which had been

lent to them while their monastery was being repaired, and Anne of Austria

would neither intrude upon them nor suffer them to be disturbed. What a

checkered space intervenes between this first appearance of the _grand

monarque_ at Compiègne and his last, when we see him passing the troops in

review for the amusement of Madame de Maintenon! He stands uncovered

beside her _chaise à porteurs_ and stoops down to explain the various

evolutions, while she raises three fingers of the glass to catch the

explanation without letting in the cold; the Duchesse de Bourgogne and the

Princesse de Conti, and all the train of princes and princesses, are

grouped round the poles of the Widow Scarron’s chair, listening

respectfully while the king speaks; but he addresses none of them.

Louis XV. made his entry into Compiègne preceded by a troop of falconers

with birds on their wrists, and accompanied by cannon and music of fife

and drum, and every demonstration of popular joy. He was just eighteen

then; his life was like the beginning of a stream, bright and clear to its

depths; soon it was to grow troubled, darkening and darkening as it

reached its middle course, till at last the waters ceased to flow and

there was nothing but a loathsome swamp. Compiègne was associated with the

brightest and happiest incidents of his life. In 1744, after he had

commanded the army with the Maréchal de Saxe, taken Ypres, Furnes, and

Menin, and performed that series of brilliant feats of arms that raised

him to the rank of a demi‐god in the eyes of the people, Louis was

marching to Alsace when he was suddenly stricken down with a malignant

fever and obliged to lay up at Metz. The news of his illness was received

as a personal calamity all over France. Never before nor since was such a

spectacle given to the world of a nation wrestling with its agony beside

the death‐bed of a king. The churches were filled day and night, the

people weeping as if every man were trembling for a wife, every woman for

a son; unable to control their grief they wept aloud, “filling the streets

with lamentations”; public prayers were everywhere offered up; processions

were formed in every town and village, and a universal concert of

supplication was going up to the divine mercy for the life of the king.

When it was known that their prayers were heard, and that he was restored

to them from the jaws of death, the reaction was like a national frenzy.

“The nation,” says Bajin, “thrilled with joy from one end to another.”

They christened their new‐found prince _le bienaimé_ and henceforth he was

called by no other name; he entered Paris like a conqueror bringing home

the spoils of half of the world; at every step his progress was impeded by

the people falling at his horses’ feet and struggling to clasp the hand of

their beloved; mothers held up their babes to kiss him, and strong men

clung to his hands and covered them with kisses and tears. Louis, overcome

by this great tide of love that was sweeping round him from his people’s

heart, was heard to repeat constantly while the tears streamed down his

cheeks, “O mon Dieu, qu’il est doux d’être aimé ainsi!” (O my God! how

sweet it is to be thus loved!) It was a manifestation the like of which

history has never chronicled. Another not less ardent, though on a smaller

scale, awaited the king at Compiègne. The town, deeming itself entitled to

make a special family rejoicing, invited him to a _Te Deum_ to be sung in

the time‐honored abbey of S. Corneille. The king went and joined with deep

emotion in the solemn hymn of thanksgiving. A monster bonfire was lighted

on a hill above the town, a rainbow of colored lamps, stretching over an

enormous space, symbolized the fair promise of delight which had risen

upon France, fountains of red and white wine flowed copiously on the great

Place, and a ball was given at night to which every inhabitant of the town

was invited, and came; gentle and simple, rich and poor, old and young,

all welded by a common joy without distinction of class into one kindred.

The victor of Fontenoy responded nobly to this magnificent testimony of

his people’s trust. Alas! that he should have outlived this glorious

morrow, and turned from his brave career into a slough of selfishness and

vice to become a byword to the tongues that blessed him, and accursed of

the nation that had lavished such a wealth of love upon him! The title of

Bienaimé, which had been spontaneously bestowed on him by the people, and

been regularly prefixed to his name in the almanac and elsewhere, became a

butt for squibmongers, and was applied to the king only in mockery and

scorn. The following is a specimen:

“Le Bien‐aimé de l’Almanach,

N’est plus le Bien‐aimé de France,

Il fait tout _ob Loc et ab Lac_.

Le Bien‐aimé de l’Almanach:

Il met tout dans le même sac,

La justice et la finance,

Le bien‐aimé de l’Almanach

N’est plus le bien‐aimé de France,” etc.(195)

When Marie Antoinette came to France as the bride of the Dauphin, it was

at Compiègne that their first meeting took place. Louis Quinze greeted her

with the most paternal affection; but his great, his sole preoccupation

was, not how the Dauphin would like his fair young bride, or how she would

take to the timid and rather awkward youth who blushed to the roots of his

hair when the king, after raising her from her knees and embracing her,

desired him to do the same, but how this pure young creature, who was

entrusted to his fatherly care, would receive the Marquise du Barry. He

presented her after all the other ladies of the court, and with a

trepidation of manner that he was not able to conceal; but the incident

had been foreseen and discussed at Vienna as well as at Compiègne. Marie

Antoinette, sustained by her proud but polite mother, proved equal to the

occasion; “she showed neither _hauteur_ nor _empressement_,” but met the

difficulty in a manner which put the king at ease, and impressed the court

with a high sense of her tact and discretion. Nor was this first

impression belied by her subsequent conduct; the Dauphine proved, on many

trying occasions, that her good sense and judgment were a match for the

nobility of her spirit and the goodness of her heart; the busybodies who

worked so diligently to embroil her in a quarrel with Madame du Barry were

foiled by her straightforward simplicity and the dignified reserve which

she maintained alike towards them and towards the favorite. An instance of

this occurred a few weeks after her marriage. The son of one of her women

of the bedchamber, a Madame Thibault, killed an officer of the king’s

guard in a duel; Madame Thibault threw herself at Marie Antoinette’s feet,

and besought her to implore the king for her son’s pardon; the Dauphine

promised, and after a whole hour’s supplication she obtained it. Full of

gratitude and delight the young princess told everybody how good the king

had been, and how graciously he had granted her request; but one of the

ladies of the court, thinking to spoil her pleasure and excite her

jealousy, informed her that Madame Thibault had also gone on her knees to

Madame du Barry to intercede for her, and that the marquise had done so.

Marie Antoinette, without betraying the slightest vexation, replied very

sweetly: “That confirms the opinion I always had of Madame Thibault, she

is a noble woman, and a brave mother who would stop at nothing to save her

child’s life; in her place I would have knelt to Zamore(196) if he could

have helped me.”

Charles V.’s old chateau, which had been patched, and mended, and added to

till there was hardly a stone of the original building left, was thrown

down by Louis Quinze, and rebuilt as we now see it. It was just finished

in time to receive Louis Seize on his accession to the throne. The new

king came here often to hunt, but he seldom stayed at Compiègne, though it

was dear to him as the place where he first beheld Marie Antoinette. When

the Revolution broke out, Compiègne suffered like other towns; some of its

churches were destroyed, others pillaged; the Carmelites, whose convent

had been the prayerful retreat of so many queens of France, were

imprisoned in the Conciergerie, after appearing before Fouquier Tinville

on a charge of having had arms concealed in their cellars. To this

preposterous accusation, Mère Térèse de S. Augustin, their superioress,

drawing a crucifix from her breast, answered calmly: “Behold our only

arms! They have never inspired fear but to the wicked.” But what did

innocence avail against such judges? The Carmelites were condemned to

death, and executed at the Barrière du Trône. They ascended the scaffold

singing the _Veni Creator_, and had just reached the last verse as the

last victim laid her head on the guillotine. While awaiting in prison the

day of their deliverance, those valiant daughters of S. Teresa amused

themselves composing a parody on the Marseillaise, of which the following

is a couplet:

“Livrons nos cœurs à l’allégresse!

Le jour de gloire est arrivé;

Le glaive sanglant est lévé,

Préparons nous à la victoire;

Sous les drapeaux d’un Dieu mourant

Que chacun marche en conquérant;

Courans et volons à la gloire!

Ranimons notre ardeur,

Nos cœurs sont au Seigneur:

Montons, Montons,

A l’échafaud, et Dieu sera vainqueur!”(197)

Napoleon I. furnished Compiègne for his young Austrian bride, Marie

Louise; she was on her way thither when he met the carriage in the forest,

and, jumping in, scared her considerably by the abrupt introduction.

At Compiègne took place Alexander of Russia’s famous interview with Louis

XVIII.; the king entered the dining‐room first, and unceremoniously seated

himself; his courtiers, scared at the royal discourtesy, began to murmur

amongst themselves, which, the czar noticing, he observed with a smile:

“What will you? The grandson of Catherine has not quarterings enough to

ride in the king’s coach!”

Charles X. received at Compiègne Francis and Isabella of Naples, and gave

for their entertainment a hunting _fête_, at which 11 wild boars, 9 young

boars, 7 stags, 56 hind, 10 fawns, 11 bucks, 114 deer, and 20 hares fell

victims to the will of the royal sportsmen. Charles, who was on the eve of

losing a more serious and brilliant royalty (1830), was, by common

consent, proclaimed king of the hunt.

The last circumstance of note connected with Compiègne is the camps held

there by Louis Philippe in 1847, and commanded by the Duc de Nemours.

Under the Empire the chateau was inhabited for a short time by the court

every autumn, and was the centre of brilliant _fêtes_ and hospitalities.

The Cross Through Love, And Love Through The Cross.

Concluded.

The next morning he went to the _Juden‐Strasse_ before the hour of the

synagogue service, and walked up unannounced into old Zimmermann’s room.

As he had hoped, so it proved—_she_ was there, reading the Psalms to the

old man. He wondered if she remembered him, if she had noticed him when he

had stood upon the landing last Sabbath morning. Zimmermann greeted him

with a nod that had not much recognition in it, but said:

“Maheleth, give the stranger a chair. _Mein Herr_, this is my good little

nurse.”

Holcombe bowed, and the girl looked at him in silence for a few seconds.

“I remember,” she then said, “you picked up my music for me in a storm,

nearly a month ago.”

“I thought you would not have known me again,” Holcombe stammered.

“Oh! yes, I am not forgetful. You have been very good to my patient, and I

am very grateful, for he has eaten more this week than he has for a whole

month.”

“I think I heard your father was ill, fräulein?”

“Oh! he has been so for many months. Is your English friend gone?”

“Yes; he has gone home to be married. I wish, fräulein, if you could

suggest anything, I could be of some use, besides bringing fruit and

flowers to this house. Do you know, since I have been in Frankfort, I have

never found anything to do?”

“Do you mean,” she asked very gravely, “you wish to be of use to _us_?”

“I mean, if I could come and sit with Herr Löwenberg, and read or write

for him, while you are away; for they tell me you are out all day, and it

must be lonely for him.”

“That is very kind of you,” she answered, looking at him in calm wonder;

“it is true he has no society, for the little girls hardly count.”

“Has he any books?” asked Holcombe. “Because _I_ have plenty, and they

might amuse him; and I have English newspapers, too, coming in regularly.

Does he speak English?”

“He understands and reads it; but you are a stranger, and why should we

place our burdens on your shoulders?”

“Oh! you must not mind my way; this sort of thing is a mania with me, you

know.”

“It is a mania seldom found,” croaked out the old man.

“I think,” put in Maheleth, “it is time for me to leave you. How can I

thank you, Mr. Holcombe? Perhaps, when you leave my friend here, you will

stop at the next landing, and go in and see my father?”

“I will, and you must not think I am in a hurry.”

The ice thus broken, many visits followed, and at night, when Maheleth was

at home, Henry read to the family in the little plain room that was so

beautiful in his sight. More than once had he again seen the girl in the

cathedral, always standing, and separated from the worshippers, always

with that same sad, anxious look. One night, he noticed a certain

constraint in the father’s and daughter’s manner, and Löwenberg was less

cordial to him than usual. After that, Maheleth seemed yet more troubled,

and grew paler and thinner. He asked old Zimmermann if he knew of any

fresh trouble in the family, but he could learn nothing from him. Rachel,

who always answered the bell, detained him one evening, and said:

“I would not go in to‐night, if I were you. Don’t be offended, _mein

Herr_.”

“Why, Rachel, what is the matter?”

“Fräulein Löwenberg went to the Catholic Church last night, and her father

found it out, and he said it was your fault.”

“Well, I _will_ go in all the same; I had nothing to do with it, and my

friend must not be angry with his daughter.”

Löwenberg was alone, and the room had a tossed look about it, very

different from the cosy aspect it usually wore. The invalid lay on a

couch, with a discontented expression on his dark, thin face.

“Are you worse to‐night?” gently asked Holcombe.

“Ay, worse indeed, and _you_ must add to my troubles after I had treated

you as a son!”

“_I!_ My friend, do you think that of me? Don’t you know me better?”

“Ah!” said the invalid irritably, “don’t try to deceive me. You know I

have nothing left to care for but my daughter, and you have been trying to

convert her. I know _why_, too, but you shall not see her any more.”

“You wrong me, Herr Löwenberg. I have never spoken to your daughter about

religion, because I did not know whether it might be agreeable to her or

not, and she never started the subject.”

“You know she goes to your church?”

“Yes, I have seen her there several times; she never saw me, however, and

I never hinted to her that I had seen her.”

“You speak very fairly about it; but I know how unscrupulous you

Christians can be in this matter. You would think it a grand thing to

convert her.”

“Undoubtedly, if I could do it by sheer conviction. But you should know me

too well to believe I would do it by any undue or secret influence.”

“You do not know how dear she is to me; you do not know how her defection

from our ancient faith would break my heart; how I should have to renounce

her for my other children’s sake!”

“And how you would stain your soul with the blackest ingratitude, Herr

Löwenberg, if you did!” interrupted Henry excitedly.

“So you think _that_, do you? You don’t know who she is, and how such a

thing would be so unpardonable in her that no consideration could

influence me. I never told you before, but she is of another blood than

you are—she is the descendant of martyred rabbis, and her race is as pure

as that of the old Machabees. We are not Germans. We are Spaniards, and,

though ruined, our family pride is as great as it ever was—as great, too,

as our love for our faith.”

“How long ago was it you were ruined?”

“Only a year and two months, and I fell ill six months ago; my wife died

almost as soon as we came here, and my Maheleth has earned our daily

bread, and taught her sisters, and managed the housekeeping, all alone. It

is enough to make one curse God!”

“Hush, hush!” said Holcombe. “You do not mean that—you know you have too

many blessings to thank him for.”

“And the best and only one you are seeking to take from me.”

“I swear to you that much as I should wish and pray for it—for that I will

not conceal from you—yet I have never influenced your child in any way.”

“You have, because you love her.”

Henry was staggered at the suddenness of his words.

“You cannot deny it,” continued the invalid.

“No,” answered the young man; “I have no desire to deny it, but your

daughter never heard it from my lips, and never would.”

“Never would!” echoed Löwenberg, firing up. “And do you, too, despise her

for her race—she that is as far above you as you are above your lowest

peasant!”

“God forbid!” said Henry solemnly; “for I think of her as of one of whom I

am not worthy. But _my_ faith forbids our union, and, love her though I

shall to my dying day, my love should never cross my lips to stir and

wound her heart.”

“You shall see her no more; you have seen her too much already; if you

love her, as you say, desist at least now.”

“Do you mean that she knows—perhaps returns—my love?”

“I have said enough, and shall not gratify your vanity. But promise me you

will not see her again, and I will even believe that you did not try to

proselytize her.”

“No; I cannot promise that. Circumstances might arise under which it would

be death to keep that promise, and yet I should have no hope of inducing

you to give it me back.”

“You mean she might become a Christian?”

“Even so, as I pray she may.”

“And you will marry her then, and she feels it, and yet you pretend you

use no influence!”

“I would marry her if she would not think me unworthy.”

“I need say no more. You have been my friend, and I thank you for your

kindness; but henceforth our paths are separate. If I lose my child, I

shall know you robbed me of her. I only ask you now to consider what I

told you of our family and fortunes as a sacred confidence.”

“My friend,” said Henry sadly, as he rose, “I will obey you, and you may

consider your secret as sacred as if it were my own. But remember this is

your own act, and, if ever you wish to call on my friendship again, my

services will be as willingly yours as though this breach had never been.

God bless you and your daughter Maheleth!”

He left the room as in a dream; Rachel scanned his face curiously as she

let him out at the crazy door.

“So,” he thought, “thus ends my connection with that house; and yet God

knows how true my intentions were. I dare not seek her, still I know she

may need me. God grant it be true that Maheleth is a Christian at heart!”

Unconsciously he bent his steps towards the cathedral; a few people were

collected about the confessionals. The stained windows were dark and

blurred in the uncertain light; only a lamp here and there hung from the

pillars.

Perhaps his prayers were more fervent in intention than full in form, and

mechanically he watched the shrouded confessionals. Suddenly from behind

the green curtain of one of them issued the figure of the Jewish girl, a

calm look lighting up her features, and her deportment altogether unlike

that which he had so often and so painfully noticed.

Her eye fell upon him instantly, and, far from shunning him, gave him a

long glance of recognition and sympathy. She knelt for some time, then

rose and walked down the nave. He followed her, and at the entrance door

she paused as if to wait for him.

“I have seen your father, Fräulein,” Holcombe said, “and he told me a

great many things.”

“I hardly think he quite knows how far things have gone,” she answered

gently. “I could give up anything for him except my soul, and for some

months I have known that only by becoming a Christian could I save it.”

“I have often seen you in church.”

“Have you, indeed?”

“Your father accuses _me_ of converting you.”

She blushed, and was silent for a few minutes.

“You have helped me by your prayers, I am sure,” she said at last.

“Tell me,” he asked, “are you a Catholic yet?”

“No; I only went into the confessional to speak to the priest; in a few

days I shall be baptized.”

“I have a favor to ask you—will you let me be present?”

“Certainly, it will make me very happy, believe me.”

“Do you know that, when your father hears of it, he will turn you out of

your home?”

“He said so—did he tell you so?”

“He did, but he could not have meant it.”

“Oh! yes,” she said sadly, “he would do it; he would think it a duty, a

matter of principle.”

“It would be very ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful! Was I not bound to work for him who gave me life? He worked

hard for us, and in the time of trouble we owed it to him.”

“But if he throws you off, what will become of _him_?”

“That is the saddest part; but I know God will take care of him.”

“Remember, Maheleth, that either for yourself or for him (for your sake)

you must never hesitate to call upon me. Promise me that.”

It was the first time he had called her Maheleth. She blushed and looked

down, saying:

“You have been very generous and very kind to my father; but surely now

you have parted friendship with him?”

“No, I have not, as I told even him; but, were it not so, for _your_ sake

it should be.”

“I have God to look after me, Herr Holcombe.”

“But I want to be his instrument.”

“His Raphael, as you have been to us through this desert of want and

poverty.”

“And will you not be my Sarah?” he asked suddenly, but in a soft, low

voice.

Her whole frame shook; then she looked up in his face, silent.

“I have loved you since I knew you,” he went on to say; “I mean since I

_saw_ you first; but I never meant to tell my secret, for you know I could

not wed a Jewess. But now, thank God! the bar is gone, and I can be happy

without sin.”

She did not answer yet.

“Have I deceived myself, then?” asked the young man sadly. “And do you not

love me, as I hoped?”

“I do,” she answered, quickly looking up. “God knows I do, but I cannot

marry you.”

“Why, why, Maheleth? You torture me.”

“Because it would break my father’s heart, and because it would give him

reason to say I had changed my faith for you.”

“But how could he?”

“I could not leave him in misery, and my little sisters alone, and go and

live in peace and earthly comfort which they could not share.”

“They are most welcome to share it, Maheleth.”

“You are too good, too noble,” she said; “but it cannot be.”

“And you love me, you say?”

“Must we not love God better, dear, dear friend? Henry, do not be angry

with me. You will be my dear brother in the faith always.”

Holcombe was too overcome to speak. She stopped and entreated him to leave

her.

“I am paining you beyond necessity,” she said; “you will be happier and

calmer if you do not see me till the day of my baptism. All things are

God’s will, and, bitter as the trial may be, he gives us strength to bear

it, if we look to him. Farewell, Henry.”

He wrung her hand in silence, and saw the drooping figure pass quickly out

of sight. He felt how much harder her trial was, and how selfish his own

words had been, yet he did not try to see her again until the day of her

baptism.

The ceremony was to take place at the cathedral, at four in the morning.

The sun had just risen, and the quiet streets were golden with his light.

Holcombe was watching at the door. She came very soon, wrapped in a long

black cloak, looking radiant and calm, as if nothing more could be of any

consequence to her, nor stir her heart confusedly. She held out her hand

to her friend with a “God bless you!” that left him dumb. Her cloak was

laid on a carved bench, and her white robe gleamed under the rainbow from

the great stained‐glass window above her. More beautiful than ever she

seemed, and more angel‐like. The priest poured the saving waters upon her

head, and performed all the holy mystic ceremonies of the sacrament, and

she, as if in a heavenly trance, followed him throughout with her eyes and

her lips. Mass was said directly after, and she and Henry knelt together

at the altar‐rails to receive the Bread of Angels. A long time passed

after Mass, and when at length Maheleth, now Mary, rose from her knees, it

was only to go to the distant Lady‐chapel, and there offer up a golden

brooch of Spanish workmanship, one of the few treasures saved from the

wreck of her father’s fortune.

As she left the church, Henry followed her.

“Are you going _home_?” he asked timidly.

She turned her dark eyes upon him very softly, but with no sadness in

them.

“I have no home now,” she said slowly. “Last night I bade my father

farewell; I am going to the convent.”

A look of terror came into Henry’s face.

“To stay there always?” he asked.

“As God wills—I do not know,” she replied.

“But are you not sorry about your father and sisters?”

“It was a hard trial,” she answered, with radiant calmness in her eyes,

“but God has taken the sorrow out of it now.”

“And shall I not see you again, now your faith is mine? I saw you often

when there was a gulf between us!”

“It is better you should forget me. But that shall be as God wills; I

leave it to him, and will make no arrangements.”

“Thank you for that, anyhow; remember all I told you, dear Maheleth; so

far, at least, you can make me happy.”

“I will _remember_ it always, and bless you for it, but I do not promise

to act up to it.”

“Never mind, you cannot help God protecting you, no matter through what

instrument.”

And with these words he left her.

For some weeks they did not meet, but Henry was busy at correspondence

with his English agents and bankers. In the meanwhile, regular remittances

arrived at Herr Löwenberg’s house, which he at first refused to accept,

not knowing whether they came from his daughter whom he had thrown off, or

his friend whom he had insulted, and not wishing to be beholden to either

for his daily pittance. But starvation was the alternative, and, had not

Rachel kindly shared her meals with his children, and sent him little

inexpensive dishes now and then, hunger would have made him yield long

ago. As it was, he missed his daily sustenance sorely, and at last, under

protest, and promising himself prompt repayment of these _loans_ as soon

as he should be well again, he began to use the money sent to him. Many a

time Holcombe came to the door to inquire after him from the good‐natured

Rachel; and every day, in the dusk of the evening, came his daughter,

almost always bearing a basket that held some little delicacy.

One night it happened that Henry and Maheleth met at the door. She was the

first to speak.

“You see I am not yet immured in my convent!” she said gayly. “I have to

thank you so much for coming here to look after my dear father. I shall be

leaving Frankfort soon, and then there will be no one to be so good to him

as you.”

“But _I_ shall not leave. Do you really mean you are going?”

“Yes; the good nuns have got me a governess’ situation somewhere in

Bohemia with Catholics. I shall go next week.”

“May I come and bid you good‐by?”

“Oh, yes! come on a visiting day, Thursday. Have you seen my sisters? How

are they looking?”

“I saw them a week ago; they looked tired, I thought.”

“Oh! they don’t know how to nurse him, and he tires them, I am afraid. But

God will see to them and him too.”

“Will you be able to come back here for a vacation?”

“Perhaps in a year—not before.”

“Your father may be well again by that time.”

“God grant it! But I must not stay any longer now.”

And having made some inquiries of Rachel, she left the house.

Henry Holcombe longed for Thursday. He wanted to ask leave to write to

Maheleth, to give her news of her father, he would say. When the time

arrived, the parlor at the convent was full, and he hardly relished making

his adieus in a crowd. He was relieved to find a nun come and beckon him

away, and show him into a quiet little room, with a polished floor, a

Munich Madonna, and a few plain chairs round a dark table.

In a few minutes, a pleasant‐looking old religious came in, followed by

Maheleth.

The girl reached her hand to Henry, saying:

“Sister Mary Ambrose knows you by name very well.”

The talk was general for a short time, then the old nun got up and walked

to the window.

“I wanted to ask you if I might write to you, Maheleth,” said the young

man, much relieved by the prospect of a comparative _tête‐à‐tête_.

“If you wish to do so, by all means.”

“And you don’t wish it?” he said, in disappointment.

“I meant it might be painful to you after all. What I wish is of no

moment.”

“Maheleth, how can you say so, when you know I shall always feel for you

the same love I do now?”

“Well, my friend, let that pass. Write to me, then; you know your letters

will be welcome.”

“I will always let you know about your father.”

“You will not always stay in Frankfort?”

“Not quite, but I shall be here again this time next year.”

She smiled and said:

“I might not be here myself.”

“Then I shall see you wherever you are, and I shall ask you the same

question you have answered once.”

“Ah! Henry, do not trust to accidents! It may never be; forget me, as I

already told you.”

“We’ll not argue about it; we will wait and see. Look, I have brought you

something,” he added, taking a tiny velvet case from his breast‐pocket.

“It is not an engagement‐ring, do not be afraid,” he said, as she seemed

troubled; “it is only a souvenir, and I want you to promise me to wear it

for one year, till I see you again. After that, you shall do as you like

about keeping it. You know what a rosary‐ring is?” he asked, as he showed

her the broad yellow band notched by tiny bubbles of gold. “And here is

the cross laid upon it, and the cross is of pearls, the emblem of

innocence. You read what is inside now.”

She took it and read the device on the interior rim: “Crux per amore; Amor

per cruce.”

“The cross through love; Love through the cross,” he explained.

She replied by kissing the ring and handing it to him, as she said:

“Put it on my finger, Henry, and only you or God himself shall ever draw

it off.”

“You do not mean—”

“Hush! how can you question him? But I fear he will not call me in that

way. Who knows, perhaps we shall meet next year? I leave my father to God

and you.”

The old nun came back from the window.

“My child, I am afraid I cannot stay any longer,” she said.

The girl rose, and took Henry’s hand in both her own.

“God bless and reward you, my dear, dear friend. You know all I would say

and yet cannot.”

He kissed her hand, and, with an ineffable look of holy calm, the Jewish

convert left the room, still glancing back at him.

Two months passed, and Löwenberg grew better. One morning, a large letter

was brought to him, with the Madrid post‐mark. He opened it hastily, and

scanned its contents. The letter fell from his hands as he read, and a

dizziness came over him; he lay back on his couch, deadly pale.

“Is it anything bad about Maheleth?” timidly asked little Thamar.

“No,” he said, momentarily roused to anger. He took up the letter again

and muttered, “A million dollars!” The children thought he was worse, and

looked on with scared faces.

The letter was from a banker at Madrid, saying that he was authorized by a

person deeply in Señor Cristalar’s debt, but who wished to remain

nameless, to apprise him of a certain sum, a million dollars, lying in

ready money at his command in Hauptmann’s bank at Frankfort. The person

had long been wishing to make this restitution, but had not till now been

able to ascertain his hiding‐place. The invalid was in a fever; he could

not help thinking of the young Christian he had spurned, yet he tried to

persuade himself it was not he, but the man to whose knavery he had owed

his total ruin.

Several days passed, and at last he wrote to Holcombe at the hotel he had

been staying at. In ambiguous terms, he spoke of a generous service

undeserved by him, and of his desire to see him, if only once. But the

Englishman was gone and had left no address. He then wrote to his Madrid

correspondent, urging him to try and discover the person from whom the

money had been sent; but the banker wrote word that the whole transaction

had been kept very secret, and that, before it had become known to him, it

had passed through so many hands that it was impossible to find out the

first person concerned. There was a hint of some American bank connected

with it, and the money had been originally paid down in American gold; but

beyond this there was no clue. Cristalar thought the Spanish banker had

been probably bribed to keep silence, and a few more weeks sped by without

his taking any active measures about his newly‐found wealth. He received

and acknowledged a letter of advice from Hauptmann’s bank, telling him of

the sum at his disposal, and Hauptmann himself came to call upon him and

offer him his congratulations. The Spaniard, who still called himself by

his German name, received the visit of his former employer as a mere

conventional act of courtesy, and seemed in no wise elated by the sudden

good‐fortune he was being congratulated upon. He did not change his

lodgings, but he hired a servant, and sent his daughters to the best

Jewish school in the town. As soon as he got well, which was by rapid

degrees, after he had received the letter that once more made him a

millionaire, he left his children in charge of Rachel, and proceeded to

London, where he advertised daily for information of Henry Holcombe. The

weekly supplies in small sums had never discontinued, but he felt assured

that, notwithstanding all these blinds, he could not be mistaken as to the

name of his benefactor.

Meanwhile, Maheleth in her Bohemian home heard from Rachel of her father’s

fortune, his restoration to health, and his journey to England. She, too,

wrote to Henry, and asked him to tell her if it were he that had thus

returned good for evil. He simply said in reply that he was free to do as

he liked with his money, and that he thought Señor Cristalar knew better

how to use it than he did.

Summer came again, and with it Henry Holcombe; the old _Juden‐Strasse_ was

once more before him, and then he learnt that Herr Löwenberg had gone

three months ago to Madrid. He had been travelling in Italy and Greece,

and had never gone home to his old English country‐house, which now was

let to good and steady tenants. He went to the convent; _she_ was not

there, but they expected her. So there was nothing for it but to go and

chat with Rachel and old Zimmermann about old times and old friends.

A week later he called again at the convent, and the portress told him to

wait. In the same little parlor, unchanged and clean, he waited for a

quarter of an hour, hoping and dreading to see Maheleth. She came in this

time alone. He took her hand in his, and looked a hungry look into her

eyes. She said to him, smiling:

“Do you see I have kept my promise? I have the dear ring on my finger, and

every day I have said the rosary with it for you. And now, you know, I

_must_ thank you.”

“I cannot bear it; don’t, for my sake, Maheleth! Have you heard from your

father?”

“No; he never _will_ write, I knew that; but I have heard _of_ him; he is

in Spain. He will begin again as a banker, I feel sure, and never rest

till he has repaid you.”

“I don’t want to be repaid, except _with interest_, and you know it is not

from _him_ I can ask that. Do you remember that I was to ask you the same

question I asked once already?”

“Yes, Henry, but think what you are doing.”

“I shall ask it first, and then think.”

“Well, Henry, if I should say that, I will answer it as you wish, provided

you can gain my father’s consent?”

The young man looked blank.

“I believe that is what God would wish me to do, Henry. My father has no

further need of me, and he or I owe you a debt of gratitude we can never

pay; yet I should like his distinct permission, if I could have it, and

you can obtain it more easily than I can.”

“I shall not rest till it be done,” said Holcombe excitedly. “Shall I

write to him? Maheleth, you have had ‘Crux per amore’; now God will give

us ‘Amor per cruce.’ ”

He wrote that very day to Madrid, asking the hand of his daughter from the

wealthy Jewish banker, and pleading as hard as though he were some poor

outcast, with never a roof to his head, begging for the favor of a royal

maiden’s love. Cristalar was overjoyed at knowing at last where to find

the man he owed health and fortune to, and, instead of a letter, he sent a

telegram to say he would be in Frankfort in a week.

Henry took the telegram to the convent; Maheleth turned very pale as she

read it.

“It is all right, surely, darling, is it not?” asked Holcombe.

“I have never seen him since the eve of my baptism.”

“And,” interrupted the young man, “please God, you will see him again the

eve of our marriage.”

She hid her face in her hands. “God grant it!” she murmured, under her

breath.

Ephraim Cristalar, for he called himself by his own name now, went to the

hotel where Holcombe used to live, and inquired for the young Englishman.

He had not long to wait.

“Mr. Holcombe!” he exclaimed, as he caught him in his arms, “I cannot

speak to you—you are master of all I am and have; can you but forgive me,

say?”

“My friend and father!” replied Holcombe, “you must not give way like

this! I only asked you a simple question, a great favor, it is true, but

that is all we have to speak of.”

“Oh! I know better than that, Henry. What have you to _ask_ of me, when

all I have is yours?”

“There is one thing I want, you know what; and my only other request is

that you will see your daughter.”

Cristalar drew back. “She is yours, Henry Holcombe,” he said solemnly, “as

far as she is mine to give; but she is an alien to my faith, and to my

home.”

“No, no, it must not, shall not be. Remember how she fed you, worked for

you, brought up your little ones, and sent you the little she earned, even

though you had cast her off.”

“It is cruel, Holcombe, to remind me of that,” said Cristalar

reproachfully. “Perhaps as your _wife_ I may see her—as the wife of my

benefactor, not as my daughter.”

“I want to take her from _your_ hands. And think how she has wearied for

you all this time!”

“I know—and do you think I have not missed _her_? I have only _half_ lived

since she left me; and I love her beyond description even yet, but that is

an unhallowed love.”

“Say, rather, an unnatural delusion; I mean your refusal to see her. You

will, for my sake, for your son‐in‐law’s sake?”

“Leave me now, Henry, I must think.”

Need we tell the end? How his better nature triumphed; how prosperity had

softened his heart, and gratitude had bent his pride; how at last his

father’s love could stand no longer the knowledge of his child’s great

sorrow; and how Henry’s prophecy that Maheleth should see her father on

the eve of her marriage was anticipated by many weeks? Her sisters and

Señor Cristalar accompanied her to the cathedral, and, after the ceremony,

the banker put into the hands of the officiating priest a check for

$10,000 for the Catholic poor of Frankfort.

Holcombe House was made ready soon after for the bride’s reception, and

Señor Cristalar established a branch bank in London, of which his son‐in‐

law was partner and responsible head. In a very few years, the Holcombe

income was the same it had been before the appalling drain the agents had

spoken of, when the young possessor had drawn the £100,000 of ready money

left him by his father, and added to it an equal sum raised on the estate.

The old Spaniard could never be induced to abandon the faith that was as

much a part of his family pride as of the tradition of his race; but

Thamar and Agar, Maheleth’s two sisters, were baptized two years after the

marriage, under the names of Elizabeth and Magdalen, and, when they in

their turn married into noble English houses, their father certainly

showed no sign of disapproval of their change of religion, in the princely

fortunes he allotted to each.

Europe’s Angels.

It was night, and the old year was passing away. The angels had sung their

anniversary strains of gladness, and had announced anew the coming of the

Prince of Peace, only a week ago, yet there was a solemn silence now in

their serried ranks, as they pressed around a group of their

representatives.

I can hardly tell you _where_ this was, or whether it was “in the body or

out of the body” that I fancied I saw the glorious vision; I only know

that it seemed as if infinite space were around them, and an amphitheatre

of angelic faces, like living stones, were making a barrier between them

and space, as the rainbow does between clouds.