= "Ma foi, I cannot tell you, monsieur," said the little concierge-and he closed his door. nize narrowly the doors, and sometimes to ask if this | the court-" Mais, la mademoiselle, is, perhaps, the or that chamber was occupied. I made my way daughter of Monsieur Very, eh, monsieur?" always to the windows of the rooms shown me, in hope of seeing the little court I knew so well, and the abbé's half-open corridor, and yet in half fear, that I might, after all, be looking from the very window about which hung so perplexing mystery. It was long before I caught sight of my old point of observation in the neighboring corridor. The room was small, and was covered with singular ancient hangings, with a concealed door, which the concierge opened into a charming little cabinet. How many more concealed doors there might have been I do not know. I put my head out the window, and looked down in search of the strange casement; it was not below. Then I looked to one side-there was the long window with a striped curtain. I looked to the other side-another long window. I looked upthere at length it was, over my left shoulder. I could see plainly the yellow placard, and heard it flapping the casement. I asked the concierge if he had no rooms above. "Oui, monsieur-a single one; but it is too high for monsieur." "Let me see," said I-and we mounted a miserably dim staircase. There were three doors; the concierge opened the nearest to the landing. “La voici, monsieur." It was a sad little affair, and looked out by just such a loop-hole as was the object of my curiosity, upon a court I did not know. "It will never do," said I, as I came out of the "But what is here?" continued I, brushing up to the next door. room. The concierge caught me by the arm, and drew me back. Then he raised himself forward on tip-toe, and whispered, “C'nt le Monsieur Very." "I knew from its position it must have been the little casement which looked upon the corridor. There was another door opposite; I brushed up to this, and was again drawn back by the concierge. "Who is here?" said I. I told the abbe of my search. He smiled, and shook his head. I described to him the person of Monsieur Very, and told him he must keep his eye upon him, and, if possible, clear up the strange mystery of the window in the court. The abbe shook his finger doubtingly, yet gave me a half promise. Three days only were left to me; I cast up anxious glances each morning of my stay, but there was nothing but the placard and a bit of the veil to be seenthe little shoe was gone. My last evening I passed with the abbe, and came away late. I stopped five minutes on the corridor, just outside the wicket; the moon was shining bright, and the stars were out, but the window at the top of the court was darkall dark. PART II. * Poor Clerie! but I have told his story, so I will not tell it again. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbe, when I first came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it will not, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbé in his priestrobes, and hearing his sad tale of poor Clerie, I should forget entirely to ask about the little shoe, or the tall gentleman of the attic. Nevertheless I did, as I went out, throw a glance up to the window of the court-alas! there were more panes broken, the placard was gone, the veil was gone-there was nothing but a flimsy web which a bold spider had stretched across one of the corners. I felt sure that the last six months had brought its changes to other houses, as well as the house of Clerie. I thought I would just step round to the concierge rie of the neighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur "La Mademoiselle Marie," said the concierge, Very; but before I had got fairly into the court I and put his finger on his lip. turned directly about, and walked away-I was afraid 'Is she young?” said I, following the concierge to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the down the stairway. Oui, monsieur." tale I had already heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge of sadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybody knows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and there are times, too-Heaven knows!-when a saddened soul shrinks, fearful as a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass, like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very: so I walked home-one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; and another while the cur rent of my thought would disengage itself from these "Eh bien! you have seen her, then!" exclaimed hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, briskly the little concierge. and sad-pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate. By this time we were in the court again. My search had only stimulated my curiosity tenfold more. I half fancied the concierge began to suspect my inquiries. Yet I determined to venture a single further one. It was just as I was carelessly leaving I knew the abbe would tell me all next day-and so he did. We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snug * Fresh Gleanings, pp. 132, 133. estaurant up-stairs, near the Theatre Français. We ok a little cabinet to ourselves, and I ordered up a ottle of Chambertin. The soup was gone, a nice dish of filet de veau, uz epinards, was before us, and we had drank each couple of glasses, before I ventured to ask one ford about Monsieur Very. thanked me, and turned into one of the male wards. I took occasion presently to look in, and saw my companion half way down the hall, at the bed-side of a very feeble-looking patient of perhaps seven or eight-and-twenty. "There seemed a degree of familiarity between them, more than would belong to patient and physi"Ah, mon cher," said the abbé-at the same time cian. I noticed too that the attendants treated the ying down his fork-" il est mort!" "And mademoiselle-" old gentleman with marked respect; this was, I fancy, however, owing to the old gentleman's air, "Attendez,” said the abbé, “and you shall hear for not one of them could tell me who he was. all." I left him in the hospital, more puzzled than ever The abbé resumed his fork; I filled up the glasses, as to who could be the occupant of your little chamid he commenced: ber. He seemed to me to have seen better days; and as for your lady of the slipper, it was so long before I saw any female with Monsieur Very, that I began to think she had no existence, save in your lively imagination." You will remember, mon cher, having described me the person of the tall pale gentleman who was ir neighbor. The description was a very good one, r I recognized him the moment I saw him. "It was a week or more after you had left for the uth, and I had half forgotten-excuse me, mon ami the curiosity you had felt in the little window in e court; I happened to be a half hour later than ual in returning from mass, and as I passed the sel at the corner, I saw coming out a tall gentleman, a cloak trimmed with a little tawny lace, and with air so different from that of most lodgers in the ighborhood, that I was sure it must be Monsieur try." The very same," said I. Here the abbe sipped his wine. "You saw her at length, then?" said I, "Attendez. One evening I caught a glimpse of "Ah, mon ami, it was too dark to see." "Attendez. (The abbé sipped his wine.) For a month I saw neither monsieur nor mademoiselle. I passed the court early and late; I even went up to "Indeed,” continued the abbé, "I was so struck St. Louis, but the sick man was gone. The whole ith his appearance-added to your interest in him- matter had nearly dropped from my mind, when one ere the abbe bowed and sipped his wine) that I de-night-it was late, and very dark-the little bell at "mined to follow him a short way down the street. kept through the Rue de Seine, and passing unr the colonnade of the Institute, crossed the Pont Fer, continued along the quay as far as the gates the garden-into the Rue de Rivoli, and though I ught he would have stopped at some of the cafés the neighborhood, he did not, but kept steadily on, r did I give up pursuit until he had taken his place one of the omnibuses which pass the head of the le de la Paix. A week after, happening to see him, as I came ne from Martin's, under the Odeon, I followed n again: I took a place in the same omnibus at the ad of the Rue de la Paix. Opposite the Rue de nery he stopped. I stopped a short way above, d stepping back, soon found the poor gentleman king his feeble paces along the dirty sideway. You remember, mon cher, wandering with me the Rue de Lancry; you remember that it is cked and long. The poor gentleman found it so; before he had reached the end he leaned against wall, apparently overcome with fatigue. I ered him assistance; at first he declined; he told ne was going only to the Hôpital St. Louis, which is now near by. I told him I was going the same ty, upon which he took my arm, and we walked hether to the gates. The poor gentleman seemed able or unwilling to talk with me, and at the gates merely pulled a slip of paper from his pocket to >w the concierge, and passed in. I attended him far as the middle hall in the court, when he kindly the wicket rung, and presently there was a loud rap at my door. It was the concierge of the next court; a man he said was dying, and a priest was wanted. "I hurried over, and followed the concierge up, I know not how many stairs, into a miserable little chamber. There was a yellow placard at the window—” I filled the abbe's glass and my own. "Poor Monsieur Very," continued the abbe," was on the couch before me, dying!" The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a third person present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place." The abbé saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine. "This is very good wine, monsieur," said the abbe. "Was she pretty?" said I. "Beautiful," said the abbé, earnestly. I filled the abbe's glass. The garçon had taken away the fricandeau, and served us with poulet roli. Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I. "She was beautiful," said the abbé, "and her expression was so sweet, so gentle, so sad-ah, mon ami-ah, pauvre-pauvre fille !" The abbé had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face. "And so poor Very died?" said I. "I was too late, mon ami; he murmured a word | little clock at the foot of the couch, and it ticked or two in my car I could not understand. He con- very-very loud. fessed to God." "And mademoiselle-" She sat at the foot of the couch when I went in, with her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on the poor gentleman's face; now and then a tear rolled off her cheeks-but she did not know it. "Presently the dying man beckoned to her. She stole softly to the head of the couch, and laid her little white hand in his withered fingers. "The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and another hurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how it must be; ah, mon ami, if you had heard her cry, Mon Dieu! il est mort!-il est mort!'" Marie,' said he, 'dear Marie, I shall be gone with a dozen or two of oysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbé had not touched his wine nor had I. -soon.' "The poor girl burst into tears, and gathered up the palsied hand of the old man in both hers, as if she would not let him go. "He was buried," resumed the abbé, "just within the gates of Pere la Chaise, a little to the right of 'Marie,' continued he, very feebly, you will the carriage way. A cypress is growing by the grave. want a friend.' and there is at the head a small marble tablet, very "Again the poor girl answered by a burst of tears. plain, inscribed simply, ' à mon pere, 1845.' She could say nothing. "I have seen Remy,' continued the old man, still addressing the girl, who seemed startled at the name, notwithstanding her grief. He has suffered like us; he has been ill, too-very ill; you may trust him now, Marie; he has promised to be kind. Marie, my child, will you trust him?' "I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn." "You saw mademoiselle?" "Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with a thick black veil—not so thick, though, but I could see a white handkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figure "Dear father, I will do what you wish,' said the tremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, girl, weeping. "Thank you, Marie,' said the old man, and he tried to carry the white hand to his lips, but he could not. And now, Marie-the little locket?' "Marie stepped softly across the chamber, and brought a small gold locket, very richly wrought, and put it in the old man's hand; the old man raised it toward his face. "A little more light, dear Marie,' said he. "Marie stepped to the window and removed the yellow placard. when they commenced throwing down the earth upon the coffin. "Oui, mon ami, I saw her walk away-not able to support herself, but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I had seen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered a carriage together, and drove away." "It was Remy, I suppose?" said I. "I do not know," said the abbé. "And when did you see her again?" "Not for months," said the abbe; and he sipped "A little more-light, Marie,' said the old man, his wine. feebly. He was getting lower and lower. "Marie set the door ajar, and, stepping to the window, she pulled a little handkerchief from her pocket, and tried to rub some of the dust from the glass. 'Light, Marie; dear Marie-more light!' He said it scarce above his breath, but she heard it, and looked at me. I shook my head. She saw how it was, and caught the stiffening hand of the old man. it. Dear, dear father!' and her tears streamed over Her sobs roused the old man for a moment. Marie,' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till it rested on her head, 'Marie-God bless you!' "I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of the old man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till her knees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested on the couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay upon her white, smooth neck. "Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes of the old man-they must have looked strangely to her. "Father, dear father!' said she. There was a "Shall I go on, mon cher ?-it is a sad story. I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbe's glass, and took a nut or two from the dish before us. "I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone, the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and made inquiries for a Monsieur Remy-no such name had been entered within a year. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court; it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the grave of the old man-it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-tree had been put at the foot xí the grave. I did not know, but thought who must have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful Marie again. You remember, mon ami, the pretty little houses along the Rue de Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear marble doorsteps?" "Très bien, mon cher abbé." "It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went in, mo ami. I made myself known as the attendant on her father's death. She took my hand at this-ah, the | God! what should I do now with flowers?' said she. soft white hand.” The abbe sipped his wine. "She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom, and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix. "I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave-but not to pick roses. "She is there now," said the abbé. There was a long pause. The abbé did not want to speak-nor did I. At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy. "You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbé. "Ah, mon ami, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him "I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten She smiled her thanks. "I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face, and burst into tears. on the world's smiles; but there is a time coming-it is coming, mon cher, when he will go away-where God judgeth, and not man. Our dinner was ended. The abbe and myself took a voiture to go to Pere la Chaise. Just within "I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her the gateway, a little to the right of the carriagefriend." track, were two tablets, side by side-one was "Mon Dieu! said she, looking at me earnestly, older than the other. The lesser one was quite new; il est-il etait mon mari!' "She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?" "Ah, non, non, monsieur-worse-Mon Dieu! quel mariage!' and she buried her face in her hands. "What could I do, mon cher? The friend had betrayed her. They told me as much at Passy." Again the abbe stopped. "She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom-it was from his grave-and kissed it, and then-crushed it in her hand-' Oh, it was inscribed simply-" Marie, 1816." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted about the smaller grave-but I picked a rosebud from the grave of the old man. I have it now. Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in the Rue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at the top. A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirty printed curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather have seen it empty. I half wished I had never seen Le Petit Soulier. EARLY ENGLISH BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES. MILTON. LEARNED and illustrious of all Poets thou, The weight of years unbent; thou, on whose brow And we behold in visitings Elysian, Where waved the white wings of the Cherubim ; But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and "Regained," We might, enchanted, wander evermore. Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned Of the Eternal dies the voice of Time, Thy name shall mightiest stand-pure, brilliant, and sublime. DRYDEN. Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine, The choice old English rhyme-and over thine, It taketh root, until the goodly tree Of Poesy puts forth green branch and bough, With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloom Of one embowered haunt I see thee now, Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom. That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago, Yet its creations with immortal life still glow. ADDISON. Thou, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen, A noontide glory over Milton's head- Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead. Life-like and fresh, thou bringest forth again DISSOLVING VIEWS. OR. A BELLE IN A NEW LIGHT. BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC. CHAPTER I. "You had better leave Harry alone about that girl," said Tom Leveredge to his sisters, who were talking very fast, and sometimes both together, in the heat and excitement of the subject under discussion "You only make Harry angry, and you do no good. Take my advice, and say no more to him about her." "And let him engage himself without one word of remonstrance," exclaimed Miss Leveredge, despairingly. "You don't know that he means to engage himself," argued Tom; "and if he does, opposition wont prevent him. On the contrary, it may settle a passing fancy into a serious feeling; and if he does not mean it now, you are enough to put it into his head, with all the talk you make about it." "She'll put it into his head," ejaculated Miss Leveredge, scornfully. "Leave her alone for that. She'll get him-I know she will," she continued, almost in tears at the thought. "It's too bad!" "What do you think about it, Tom?" inquired Mrs. Castleton, earnestly. "Do you think with Emma, that it will end in his having her?" "I should not be surprised," replied Tom, coolly. "Then you think he is in love with her?" continued his sister, mournfully. "There's no telling," replied Tom. "He's a good deal with her; and if he is thwarted at home, and flattered by her, I think it very possible he may fancy himself so, whether he is or not." "Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, "that would be melancholy, indeed-to be taken in without even being attached to her!" "Don't be in such a hurry," said Tom. "I don't know that he is not in love with her, or that he is going to be taken in; but I do say, that Emma's course is very injudicious." "What is that?" inquired Mrs. Castleton. "Oh, abusing the girl so-saying she is vulgar, and-" "I am sure I did not say any thing that is not true," said Emma, with some spirit. Perhaps not," replied Tom; "but it is not always wise to be forcing the truth upon people at all times, and in all tempers." "Where on earth did Harry become acquainted with her?" asked Mrs. Castleton. derbred and vulgar. Why will Harry have any thing to do with him?" "Who-Jewiston? He's a clever fellow enough." said Tom. "Oh, Tom! how can you say so!" "So he is," persisted the young man. "He's not very refined or elegant, I grant you-but still a very good fellow." "And so you think, Tom," continued Mrs. Castleton, still intent on the main theme, "that in all probability Miss Dawson will be our sister-in-law?" Emma shivered. "I don't think it probable, but very possible." replied the young man, "particularly under the present system of family politics." "And it would be very bad," pursued Mrs Castleton, inquiringly. "Oh, dreadful!" ejaculated Emma. "There's nothing very dreadful about it," remon. strated Tom; "it would not be pleasant, certainlybut that's all. There's no use in making the matter worse than it is." Emma looked as if that were impossible, but said nothing, while Mrs. Castleton continued with"What kind of a set is she in-and what are the family?" "Very low, vulgar people," said Emma. "Now, Emma, there again you are exaggerating." rejoined Tom. "They are not a low set—vulgar, I admit." "The same thing," persisted Emma. "It's not the same thing, Emma," said the young man, decidedly. "They are very far from being low people. Her father is a highly respectable man. and, indeed, so are all the family-not fashionable, I grant you." "Fashionable!" ejaculated Emma, with a smile full of scornful meaning. "But I admit," continued Tom, "that it is not a connection that would altogether suit us. I should be as sorry, perhaps, as any of you to see the thing take place." "And what is the girl in herself," pursued Mrs Castleton. "A vulgar, forward, ugly thing," said Emma. speaking quickly, as if she could not help hersel— the words must out, let Tom say what he would. Tom said nothing, however. "Is she?" said Mrs. Castleton, looking very much “That's more than I can tell you,” replied Tom. | distressed, and turning to her brother. "He told me that Jewiston introduced him." "I never could bear that Jewiston," remarked Miss Leveredge; "I always thought him very un Emma will have it that she is," he replied. "Now, Tom, you know she is," expostulated Einma. |