what use is it to dwell on the anger of two old men? At last I succeeded in separating them. Monsieur de Lessay beckoned to his daughter, and went out. She followed him. I ran to the stairs after her.

"Mademoiselle,' I cried, distracted, pressing her hand, 'I love you! I love you!'

"For an instant she held my hand in hers, her lips half opened. What was she going to say? But all at once, raising her eyes to her father, who was ascending the stairs, she withdrew her hand and made me a gesture of farewell. I never saw her again. Her father took rooms near the Panthéon, in an apartment which he had rented for the sale of his historical atlas. He died there a few months later from a stroke of apoplexy. His daughter, I was told, went to live at Caen with an aged lady, a relative of hers. There, some years later, she married a bank clerk, the Noël Alexandre who became so rich and died so poor. As for me, madame, I live alone in peace by myself. My life, free from great sorrows as well as from great joys, has been tolerably happy. But for years I could not, without a great pang at heart, see an empty armchair near mine on a winter evening. Last year I heard through you who knew her, of her old age and death. I met her daughter at your house. I have seen her; but I will not say as yet, as did the aged man of the Scriptures, And now, O Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.' If an old fellow like me can be of use to anyone, I should like, with your help, to devote my last years to this orphan girl."

I uttered these words on the vestibule of Madame de Gabry's home; and I was about to take leave of this kind friend, when she said to me,

"Dear friend, I cannot aid you in this as much as I could wish. Jeanne is an orphan and a minor. You cannot do anything for her without her guardian's consent."

"Ah! I never thought for an instant that Jeanne might have a guardian."

Madame de Gabry looked at me with ill-concealed surprise. She had not expected to find the old man quite so simple-minded. "Jeanne Alexandre's guardian," said she, "is Maître Mouche, a notary at Levallois-Perret. I fear that you will not get on very well with him. He is a serious man."

"Ah! good heavens!" I cried; "whom do you think I should get on with at my age, if not with serious people?"

She gently smiled, with a mischievous expression in her eyes, just as my father used to do, and replied,—

"With those who, like you, are innocent and generous. Monsieur Mouche is not exactly of that kind. He is artful and light-fingered. Although I find little pleasure in meeting him, we will go together, if you wish, and ask permission to see Jeanne, whom he has put in a boarding-school at les Ternes, where she is very unhappy."

We appointed a day. I kissed Madame de Gabry's hand, and we parted.

THE PRECOCIOUS CHILD.

ONE day I saw a gentleman sitting on my small couch, which displeased and irritated me, so that in my vexation, being determined to draw attention to myself, I asked for some sugar and water, and grew ferociously angry on hearing the gentleman remark, “He must be an only child; he seems so much spoiled." That day I left without kissing the white lady, as a punishment for her. Another time, the white lady desiring to be left alone with the same gentleman, I was sent into the dining-room, where I had for amusement nothing but a picture clock, which struck only the hours. It was a long one hour. The cook gave me some jam, which for a moment relieved the grief of my heart. But when the jam was all gone, my grief returned. I flattened my nose against the window, I pulled the horsehair out of the chairs, I made the holes in the wall-paper larger, I plucked out the fringe of the curtain; and, at last, when I was bored to death, I raised myself to the knob of the door. I knew I was doing an indiscreet, a bad action, but I opened the door, and there I found the white lady standing against the chimney-piece, while the gentleman, on his knees at her feet, was opening his arms wide to embrace her. He was redder than a coxscomb, and his eyes seemed starting out of their sockets. The lady said: "Let there be an end of this, sir." He rose when he saw me, and I think he wanted to throw me out of the window. When the lady in black came in, the white lady said: "Monsieur Arnoux called, but only stayed a second." The lady's good genius inspired me to hold my tongue, for I was going to cry out that it was a falsehood, and that the gentleman had stayed a very long time.

SAINT FRANCIS D'ASSISI.

SAINT FRANCIS D'ASSISI (Giovanni Francesco Bernardone), celebrated Italian monk and ecclesiastic, born at Assisi in 1182; died there, Oct. 4, 1226. He was the founder of the Franciscan order and was one of the most extraordinary men of his age. In early years he was fond of gaiety, prodigality and ostentation and was little given to study. When about twenty years old he was taken with a severe illness, and on his sick-bed indulged in deep reflection. When he recovered he was a changed man. He began to speak of poverty as his bride, and the poor, the sick, and the leprous became objects of his especial attention. He made a pilgrimage to Rome and in his zeal for the Church threw all his worldly goods upon the altar of St. Peter's, and gave himself up to a life of charity and alms-giving. His enthusiasm by degrees excited emulation and he was joined by other devoted spirits until a brotherhood was formed, which increased in numbers and influence and was sanctioned by Pope Innocent III. about 1210. They were forbidden to own property, and were bound to preach and labor without fixed salaries, living only on charity. In 1223 Pope Honorius III. published a bull confirming the verbal sanction of Pope Innocent. Francis also founded an order of poor sisters, known by the name of Poor Claras or Clarisses. Francis was unceasing in his labors. He made long journeys to Spain, Illyria, and even to the East to preach to the Mahometans. His works, notably poetic in style, consist of letters, sermons, ascetic treatises, proverbs and hymns.

HYMN OF THE CREATION.
BLESSED be God, the father

Of everything that lives,

Most blessed for our Lord the Sun
Who warmth and daylight gives.

The sun is bright and radiant,
He sheds his beams abroad,
But all his glory witnesseth
To what thou art, my God.

Then, for our sister Moon, O Lord,
Our hearts bless thee again;
And for the brilliant, beauteous stars
That glitter in her train.

We thank thee also for the Winds,
Our brothers, too, are they;

For air, and clouds, and pleasant days,
When all the earth seems gay.

But no less would we praise thy name
For any kind of weather,

Knowing that rain, and frost, and snow
All work for good together.
Thanks for our sister Water, too,
Pure Water, cool and chaste,
Precious to everything that lives,
With powers of cleansing graced.

And for thine other mighty gift,

Our brother Fire, whose flame
By thy command is sent to light,
With beams unquenchable and bright,
The solemn darkness of the night,

We bless thy holy name.

And lastly for our Mother Earth,
That goodness we adore,

She feeds us; she brings precious fruits
Out of her bounteous store;

And lovely flowers through the grass

She scatters full and free.

For all these things we bless thee, Lord,
For all proceed from thee.

ORDER.

[Our Lord Speaks.]

AND though I fill thy heart with hottest love, Yet in true order must thy heart love me,

For without order can no virtue be;

By thine own virtue, then, I from above Stand in thy soul; and so, most earnestly, Must love from turmoil be kept wholly free;

The life of fruitful trees, the seasons of
The circling year move gently as a dove:
I measured all the things upon the earth;
Love ordered them, and order kept them fair,
And love to order must be truly wed.
O soul, why all this heat of little worth?
Why cast out order with no thought of care?
For by love's heat must love be governed?

TO THE ELEVEN AT RIVO TORTO.

(From "His Life," by Bonaventure.)

TAKE courage, and shelter yourselves in God. Be not depressed to think how few we are. Be not alarmed either at your own weakness, or at mine. God has revealed to me that he will diffuse through the earth this our little family, of which He is Himself the father. I would have concealed what I have seen, but love constrains me to impart it to you. I have seen a great multitude coming to us, to wear our dress, to live as we do. I have seen all the roads crowded with men travel

ing in eager haste towards us. The French are coming. The Spaniards are hastening. The English and the Germans are running. All nations are mingling together. I hear the tread of the numbers who go and come to execute the commands of holy obedience. We seem contemptible and insane. But fear Believe that our Saviour, who has overcome the world, will speak effectually to us. If gold should lie in our way, let us value it as the dust beneath our feet. We will not, however, condemn or despise the rich who live softly, and are arrayed sumptuously. God, who is our Master, is theirs also. But go and preach repentance for the remission of sins. Faithful men, gentle, and full of charity, will receive you and your words with joy. Proud and impious men will condemn and oppose you. Settle in your hearts to endure all things with meekness and patience. The wise and the noble will soon join. themselves to you and, with you will preach to kings, to princes, and to nations. Be patient in tribulation, fervent in prayer, fearless in labor, and the kingdom of God, which endures forever, will be your reward.

VOL. IX.-17