A wild scream

touched it, and in an instant she was in the water. of terror warned the queen of the danger, but before she could even turn round to look, Madame de Broc had disappeared. In that moment of maddening fear the queen seems to have been the only person who retained anything like presence of mind. Tearing a magnificent shawl from her shoulders, she flung one end into the water, and holding the other in her own frenzied grasp, she lay down on the rock and stretched dangerously far over the chasm in hopes of thus aiding her unhappy friend. But not the faintest clutching at the shawl, not the slightest ripple in the water ensued to show that she was still near the surface and struggling for life; and in utter despair at last, Hortense actually leaped back over the chasm, and joining her people on the other side, exerted all her eloquence to excite them to the rescue. But her own courtly train stood aghast at the bare idea; and the people of the mill clamorously announced their conviction in the bottomless nature of the abyss and the consequent madness of risking another life, in the attempt to save one, which, according to their theory, was lost already. The poor queen, however, was in no state to understand or even to listen to their arguments; she could think of nothing but her lost friend perishing before her very eyes, without even an attempt to save her; and moved at last by her tears and anguish, a brave boy of eighteen years of age, or, perhaps, a trifle less, tore the blouse from his shoulders and plunged boldly in. Once, twice, thrice he dived deep down into the black, sullen water, and once twice, thrice he was forced to return empty-handed to the surface. An hour at least was spent in these desperate and vain attempts, and by that time the poor lad was so exhausted that even Hortense was compelled to acknowledge he could do no more. The waters, however, which had been turned off the moment it was known that an accident had occurred were now subsiding so rapidly that in ten minutes more the bottom of the chasm was laid bare to view, and, the theory of its non-existence being thus happily confuted, some of the people ventured to descend in order to search it thoroughly. But they searched and searched in vain, and they were just beginning to recurto their old idea of a secret mode of entrance existing somehow or somewhere into the bowels of the earth, when one of them discovered a wide channel of communication between the chasm itself and the troughs beyond it. This solved the mystery. Poor Madame de Broc having in the first instance been carried far down into the water by the impetus of her fall, was caught up by the strong current underneath and forced through this unsuspected passage into the deep trough beyond.

And there indeed they found her! She had been far too long in the water to admit of a hope even that she was living still, and so they could only lay her as she was, white, and cold, and dead, at the feet of her weeping mistress. For a long time, however, Hortense could not be persuaded of the reality of her loss, and not until every doctor in Aix had been consulted, and every possible means for restoring animation had been tried and tried in vain could she bring herself to acknowldge that her friend was dead. At last she was

persuaded of the fact, and the little cavalcade which had left Aix so joyously in the morning re-entered it at sunset, mute and mournful, as à funeral procession—a corpse silent and cold in one carriage, and a queen weeping sadly in the other.

Years after the event I have just described, Napoleon III., the glories of the imperial crown fresh upon his brow, and his fair young bride beside him, paid a visit to Grezy, and looked down into the chasm where his mother's friend had perished. The "once brave boy in blouse," then a garrulous old man of eighty, and the sole surviving witness of the disaster, had been summoned to the imperial presence, and from his lips the emperor learned all, down even to the minutest particulars connected with the scene. Probably he had heard something already from Hortense of the untimely fate of her beloved Dame du Palais, and he may even have had himself a dim childish recollection of the fair young girl in widow's weeds (for Madame de Broc had lost her husband soon after her marriage), who moved like a shadow through his mother's palace, and contrived to lead a life of charity and devotion in the midst of its gay surroundings. At all events, he showed great and real emotion as he listened to the story, and the empress shared the feeling; for no sooner had the old man ceased to speak, than, moved by one of those warm impulses so graceful in every woman, so gracious as well as graceful in a woman like Eugenie, young, beautiful, and of high rank, she took a splendid chain of gold from her own neck and flung it over his. Neither was the emperor slow in the expression of his feelings. had listened to the tale with that peculiar expression of bonhommie which never failed to win the hearts of those upon whom it was exerted, and he closed the interview (English fashion) by a good shake of the hand and a bountiful supply of gold, fresh and bright from the imperial mint.

He

In simple justice, however, to the "brave blouse boy," I feel bound to add that when he described to me this interview with royalty, he dwelt far more enthusiastically on the sweet smile of the empress and the emperor's offered hand than upon the gold which filled the latter, and which came to him just in time to make his old age comfortable and free from care.

I

POVERTY.

A SONNET.

HAD a dream of poverty by night,

And saw the holy palmer wending by
With pensive face and radiant upturned eye,
Drinking the tender moon's approving light.
I saw her take the hills and climb the height,
While broad below the city murmured nigh,
Spangling the dusk with lamps of revelry
That made the mellow planets pale to sight.
Yet kept my love her face toward the stars
Till broke the dawn against the mountain ridge,
And angels met her on the misty way.

Then heaven looked forth on her through golden bars,
Then gleamed her feet along a rosy bridge,

Then passed she noiseless into eternal day.

R. M.

O

A NAMESAKE.

H! grand the music of that martyr-fame,

Which peals from where Catana's blue waves fleet, Through sixteen centuries, clear, and strong, and sweet, In power of fresh attraction still the same.

With thoughts of thy young glorious death I came,
Of Peter's love for such fair soul so meet,

And of one heart as kind as ever beat

One dear and valued friend that bears thy name,

A gifted nature, noble, rich, and deep,

That can with wealth of generous love repay.

Then guard her well, sweet saint, her life still keep
Safe in Perfection's narrow path each day,
Spare her in pain as may be without loss,

And teach thy patience when Christ sends his cross.

A. E.

THE CHANCES OF WAR.

CHAPTER XXXV.

A LAST INJUNCTION.

"The walls grew weak; and fast and hot
Against them poured the ceaseless shot,
With unabating fury sent

From battery to battlement;

And thunder-like the pealing din

Rose from each heated culverin. "

The Siege of Corinth.

WITH the return of night all Kathleen's visions of green fields and bright waters disappeared. The gloom of the city sank down upon her more heavily than it had ever done before. The sluggish atmosphere was more suffocating than usual, and the hot vapours of the narrow street more oppressive. In her attempt to play the convalescent she had exhausted the little strength her long illness had spared. Feverish and restless she lay awake all the night through, listening to the occasional sounds that broke upon its stillness. The listless step of the homeless outcast, the quick, impatient tread of the public messenger on his important errand, the measured tramp of the patrol, each came in turn to give a new turn to her wandering thoughts, and a new course to her weary speculations. The window of her room looked down into the street that led from King John's Castle to the bridge uniting the English with the Irish town. Several detachments of infantry passed under the window in the direction of the bridge, and once a body of cavalry went by. She strained her ears to catch the sound of a voice from some of the riders, but without success. There was nothing to be heard but a jingling of bits, a rattling of coats of mail, and the ring of many hoofs upon the pavement; and all these sounds died away soon, and left the night lonely and dismal as before. Its dreary hours dragged slowly on; it seemed as if the dawn would never come.

But it came at last. Its rays found their way into the dingy street, and then into the gloomy chamber where Kathleen lay. They crept in through chinks and crevices, and found out hidden passages among the folds of the curtains, through which they entered mysteriously; and they danced merrily about the room, as if glad to see it again after their long journey round the earth, and tried, in their own way, to cheer the sick child. But their fantastic pranks were unheeded. The child's face was flushed with a scarlet bright as the colouring of the morning clouds through which they had forced their A strange, unsteady light flickered in her eyes, her breath came long-drawn and very slow, and her breast rose and fell spasmodically with every respiration. These were alarming symptoms, but

way.

there was no one near to be alarmed by them. The bright beams continued to pour into the room; for hours after they had come, they alone saw what the child suffered.

Later on Mary came to pay her morning visit to the invalid. She was terrified at the change the night had brought.

"I feel very weak and very tired, Mary," said Kathleen, in answer to her inquiries. "I have not slept. The air seems thick and slimy. I am hot and thirsty too."

Mary moistened the thin parched lips of her sister, and seated herself by the bedside.

"Mary," asked the child, after a long pause,

must every one who dies in Limerick be buried amongst the tombstones that stand round the old church ?"

"I cannot tell, Kathleen; why do you ask?"

"I should not like to lie there if I were dead, Mary. It must be very chill and damp in those musty corners; nothing grows there but long grasses and weeds. If I died I should like to be laid near father, the flowers grow so very beautiful there, and the water goes by with such a nice soft gurgling sound that it could never be lonely."

"What strange thoughts you have to-day, Kathleen! Where have they all come from?"

"I do not know," answered the child, "they have filled my head all the morning. Perhaps I am going to die. I should not like it, Mary."

"You would meet father and mother, and would be happier with them than you have ever been here, Kathleen dearest," said her sister, sadly. She felt there was something more than fancy in these dark presentiments.

"But you would be left alone. What would become of you, Mary ?"

66

'I should be lonely, but it would only be for a short time. We should all soon meet again in heaven."

"How I wish we could go there together! I am sure it would make me sad even there, to think of you left on earth without a friend."

Stay with me then, Kathleen, and do not think any more of dying. We are to be delivered soon out of this miserable town. Bear up until we reach the green fields and the pure air beyond the hills, and you will be strong again."

A bright look lit up the face of the sick child at the mention of these pleasures so near at hand.

"How long have we yet to wait ?" she asked.

Before her question could be answered, the report of a gun, fired from some battery beyond the river, broke on the air. Another followed, and then another, and in a few minutes a heavy cannonade resounded along the eastern wall of the "Irish Town." The sisters were not unused to the tumult of siege operations, but they had never heard them plied with such violence before. The furies of war seemed to have broken the bonds which had hitherto restrained them.