heart while he listened. He heard her gentle breathing. He laid his hand upon her heart. It still kept up its workings. He laid her as gently as one would lay an infant upon her bed, and summoned her at tendants. She continued to sleep The physician assured him that death, though near, was not yet at the door.

The next morning revealed a marked change in the condition of the invalid. At first, she did not seem to recognize Carlton. The cloud, however, soon passed from her mind, and she gave him her usual smile and welcome.

"I shall never rise from my bed again," said she; "do not leave me except when I sleep. My mind begins at times to give way. Remember your promise to prepare to meet me in the better land."

"I will," said he, nerving himself to composure for her sake. He then read the Scriptures to her, and, unasked, kneeled and offered a prayer in her behalf.

Ere long the aged pastor of the village church entered the chamber. He had been absent some time on a visit of mercy to a prodigal son of one of his parishioners. He silently pressed the hand of Carlton, and passing to the bedside, impressed a kiss upon the forehead of Eliza. His experienced eye told him that the silver thread of life was well nigh broken.

"You are on the verge of Jordan," said be. "Yes," was the calm reply.

"Its waves are not rough?"

"Calm and peaceful."

"You have no fears of death?" "None."

"Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. You can say Thy will be done?"

Looking for a moment with unutterable tenderness upon Carlton, she closed her eyes and said, in a low but thrilling tone, "Thy will be done."

Her parents were called in. After uttering, from the depths of his experience, a few words of consolation, the pastor kneeled down and offered a prayer, first for the dying girl, then for him who watched over her, and then for her parents and friends. During the prayer Carlton held her hand in his, and felt its feeble pressure as the petitions had reference to him.

She sunk into a brief slumber almost as soon as the prayer was ended. Perfect silence was preserved, that she might not be disturbed. Carlton still retained her hand. The mother was about to make a whispered inquiry of the pastor, when the sleeper awoke.

"Did you hear that music?" said she.

felt not the warm tear that fell upon it, "and you my friends"-turning to the parents-" can say, 'the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.""

CHAPTER III.

Carlton remained by the bedside of the departed one till the attendants came to prepare the body for the grave. He then repaired with apparent calmness to his chamber, and remained there till summoned to attend the funeral. He took his seat in the church with the afflicted parents, and with them followed the coffin to the grave-yard; but no tear fell from his eye, nor, in view of the multitude, at least, did his countenance wear the expression of deep sorrow. Some thought he was wonderfully supported, and others doubted the strength of his affection for the departed one.

When the last sod have been laid upon the grave, he returned home, and seated himself by his father's side.

"You will hardly be disposed to return to college this term, my son," said the sympathizing father. "Consult your own inclinations in relation to the matter."

"I shall return to-morrow, was the unexpected reply. The father made no objection. He looked upon exertion as the great antidote of sorrow.

Early the next morning Willard arose, and having visited the grave-yard, and laid his head upon the sear turf of the new made grave, he set out on his return to college.

The evening found him at his room, surrounded by his friends, who came to express their sympathy for his bereavement, or their joy at his return. At an early hour he intimated his desire to be left alone. His well-known habit of retiring early, and the painful scene through which he had passed, formed, in the judgment of his friends, an ample apology for any want of courtesy implied in the intimation.

If there were any who thought that his affliction would weaken his devotion to intellectual pursuits, they were disappointed. His friends soon found that their society was not desired by him. Even Temple was constrained to feel that his presence was irksome to his friend. He seemed to desire to spend every moment in study. No light burned later than that which threw its rays upon the page before him. Modes of mental exertion, which he had formerly neglected, now received his earnest attention. In the halls of debate which he had seldom visited, he was now present on every occasion, and the energy with which he grasped every question awakened the highest admiration. In whatever he undertook there was an exhibition of power never before suspected even by his partial friends.

But the tense chord was at length broken. An impassioned burst of eloquence, which, in the judgment of those present, surpassed any thing they had heard from mortal lips, was followed by the ravings of lunacy.

Released from the control of the will, the mind re

vealed the thought which had wrecked it. The name which had never passed his lips, since she who bore it ceased to be an inhabitant of earth, was now constantly repeated in tones which drew tears from eyes "unused to weep."

He was removed by his friends to a lunatic asylum. After a long and dangerous illness, his brain began gradually to resume its proper functions. Several relapses, however, were experienced, and it was not till the spring and summer had passed, that his mind was fully restored.

He then returned, feeble and wasted, to his native village. With the consent of his father, he took up his abode with the parents of the lost one, and occupied the chamber in which she breathed her last. He passed the days sitting in her chair, looking out upon the landscape which she had loved to gaze upon, and in reading the New Testament which had lain in her bosom.

For a few days his strength seemed to increase; but there was little to justify the hope of his friends that he would be restored to health.

The aged pastor visited him, and kindly inquired respecting the state of his soul toward God.

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After some further inquiries and appropriate counsels, the pastor withdrew, strongly hoping that that chamber would be the scene of spiritual birth, and as strongly fearing that it was again to bear witness to the power of death.

The apparent improvement in the health of Carlton was of short continuance. Once only was he able to walk to the grave-yard, and rest upon the turf which was now green upon the grave of Eliza.

"Tell my father," said he, one day to the physician, who had not expressed his opinion upon the case, "that I shall not recover."

"It is well for us to be convinced of that truth. It should lead us to acquaint ourselves with Him and be at peace."

clasped upon his bosom. Apparently he had passed away as gently as did the former owner of that precious volume.

that knowledge and peace."

"He that seeketh findeth! ance!"

What a blessed assur

And the billows are breaking in swells of song,
That call me forth to the deep again:

A fiery charger paws the sand;

A hound looks up with watching eye,

To scour the forest and valley land,

And bay with the winds on the mountain high!
Let horns be heard in the gray ravine,
And stormy songs from off the sea!
There's blood in my heart, where tears had been,*
And the blood of Youth is bold and free!
Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore

Which kept this arm from the Life of Earth-
Lie down to rest on the quiet shore,
While the dust, exulting, marches forth!
Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame,
That once wert ruddy as the dawn!

But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame,
Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone.
Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air-

Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine;
She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,
And warm thy veins with generous wine!

* Mon cœur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes. LAMARTINE.

Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power,
On the wild slopes of craggy hills;
Thou shalt bare thy breast to the arrowy shower,
And catch in thine arms the icy rills:
Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same,
When fevered cares in the spirit start,
As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame,
Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart!

1

Thou shalt
go where the battle clarions blare,
With the fierce, heroic rage of old;
The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear-
Thy heart shall swell like a banner's fold.
In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame,
Nor shrink from the path of thine arm's employ,
When the thews are steel and the veins are flame,
And Death to thee is a terrible joy!

Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein!
Unleash the keen, impatient hound,

And deep in the seething foam again
Let every quivering oar be drowned!
We will rock on the ocean's solemn rell,
Or follow the charging music's mirth,
And the vine's bright blood shall crown the bowl
That brims for us with the Life of Earth!

CHAPTER I.

In the garret room of a little two-story house in Philadelphia, sat two women, both of whom were foreigners. A child reclined in the lap of one of them, who was haggard and thin, yet beautiful. Her features were of the Grecian cast, with a most fascinating smile, and hair of a light auburn, that curled naturally and in profusion around her finely modeled head.

The appearance of the other woman was commonplace, but she had a frank and kind expression that redeemed her bad looks. They were both French; the blonde had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the other as evidently came from one of the provinces.

"Ah, Madame Eboli!" said the latter, "now that I am going to join my husband in New Orleans, what is to become of you? You must not stay in this tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no grace, no tournure; and the men never wear a moustache! not even an imperial! It is not astonishing that I should be able to bear it, having been condemned from my earliest youth to a country-life, where I was sometimes compelled to bring myself in contact with such rusticity! But you who come from our dear Paris, what a blow to your feelings to be placed among these savages! What a horror!"

"My dear friend," returned Madame Eboli, "the world has of late altered in my eyes. The outward forms of men had once an effect on me; now, I see little beauty in even the finest features where there is no expression of sympathy for the unfortunate. As to remaining any longer in this city it is impossible. My funds had been exhausted two days previous to your sending me that last piece of sewing. I cannot get sufficient employment by my needle to support myself and Eleonore, and if I could I should fear the consequences. Bending over my work from early morning till late at night, makes me very ill. I have now a constant pain in my side. It is but nine months since I crossed the sea, when my poor husband died, and I wish to be near the sea, for then I do not seem so far away from him whose grave it is-"

"You are a good musician, can you not teach the piano or the guitar?"

"Ah, Madame Persaune! I have tried that, but no one would take lessons of a stranger. My garb was an evidence of my poverty, and in their eyes of my inefficiency; my face had the sufferings I have endured written upon it."

"It is true that the ground is occupied by those of high reputation and long standing, and I see no other

means by which women can earn a livelihood in this detestable country. Now in France you might go into one of the shops kept by women, or make pastry in a confectionery. But in this country men monopolize all the labor, with the exception of sewing and taking care of the children. However, I must go now and pack my trunks. God be with you and dear little Eleonore! You must accept this from me. God bless you!"

The good woman hurried away before Madame Eboli could speak. Her friend had left her a wellfilled purse. "There is money enough," thought she, "to take me to New York. In New York I shall find countrymen, and it may be friends. If I die, they will then take care of Eleonore."

"Dear mother, kiss me!" said the little three-yearold Eleonore.

"Yes, my child, and we will leave this place, and I will take my angel to New York, where I may find some old friends. My aunt thought of going there with my boy cousins. Were I only to see her dear face once more! She always loved me, and when I married poor Gustave and my father and mother cast me from them, she addressed me with words of kindness. Dear aunt!-and my sweet sister too. Alas! I shall never see her more. Dear sister Eugenie! so young and so beautiful. But come, Eleonore, bring thy doll; we will go to New York this very day."

The poor woman was too ill, however, to accomplish this, so it was put off till the following day. A good dinner gave her renewed strength, it being the first she had eaten for many weeks.

They were several days on the journey, and late on the afternoon of the day of their arrival, Madame Eboli, with her child in her arms, stopped at the door of a small house in Seventeenth street. By dint of gestures and broken English, the Irish, who were its inhabitants, were induced to relinquish a room to her. She had wandered the city through, until weary and way-worn, her feet refused her further support.

She sank on a bed exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, and want of food. Her child she had fed with cakes, and the little creature had fallen asleep, wearied by the excitement of the day.

Many and bitter were poor Madame Eboli's reflections. She cared little for herself, but she thought that her tender and beautiful Eleonore was without a home and without friends. Not a countryman had she seen that whole day, and she had been followed by the jeers of the rude and ignorant German and Irish who form our suburbs, and who felt no pity for the poor stranger who could not make herself understood.

135

CHAPTER II.

"Maman veut du feu!" said a little girl, as she pushed open the door of an Irish shanty, and stood with a shovel in her hand.

"Was there ever the like!" said Bridget, resting her fists on her hips. "Now this be's the third blessed day that the child has been here for coals and said that same thing!"

The child went quietly to the hearth, took some coals on her shovel, and departed.

"I'se been thinking it is n't our language she's a speaking, though she's such a bit of a thing one couldn't tell rightly what she'd be afther? I'll follow her, belike she's in mischief, though it is n't in my heart to think ill of such a purty little cratur!" So away ran Bridget, down one pair of stairs and up another, following the child, who pushed open a door with her shovel; and there on the naked bed she saw Madame Eboli, with no covering but a shawl. Madame Eboli spoke, but so faintly that Bridget could not understand her; she then laid Bridget's hand on her forehead, when the Irish woman instantly perceived that she was dying with fever. Bridget flew to a poor friend of hers, whom she knew was attended by an eminent French physician of the city. He had been kind, she thought, and done much for my sick friend, why should he not do the same for this woman, who was also in distress? Fortunately he was at the bedside of his patient when Bridget arrived.

"Och, sir! an there's a poor woman in Seventeenth street, what's a terrible faver on her, and no clothes to her bed, and nothing to ate; maybe yees 'd go and see her a bit! She's a nice looking woman, and got as purty a child as ever I see."

"I will come to her directly," said Doctor Breton. "I think she's a foreigner, maybe yees could talk with her, being one yoursel; she's so wake, poor thing! there's no telling what she'd be saying."

It was but a short ten minutes after Bridget's summons when the doctor opened the door of Madame Eboli's room. The little girl was crying, and making vain efforts to turn her mother toward her. As the child spoke in French, he addressed the mother in that language, giving her at the same time, some reviving medicine. After taking it, she was able to give him an account of herself, and also to tell him of her anxiety concerning Eleonore.

cepted Doctor Breton's invitation to enter and see the little Eleonore.

Mr. Carron was a very impulsive man. He never hesitated, never reflected, (never asked his wife's opinion, as every reasonable man should,) but went into raptures over little Eleonore's beauty, and offered on the spot to adopt the child as his own-an offer that was thankfully accepted by the poor mother.

It was but a week after this, that the doctor found Madame Eboli much worse. On leaving her he requested to be called should any change take place in her symptoms.

CHAPTER III.

It was ten o'clock. The night-lamp of the infirmary showed with a horrible distinctness the haggard inmates who were tossing and groaning on their pallets. The doctor sat beside the bed of Madame Eboli. They were discoursing concerning Eleonore.

"I conjure you," said the doctor, "tell me the name of your family. It is necessary to the future welfare of your child!"

"My parents cast me from them. They loved me not-how should they love my child? No! it is better that she should eat the bread of strangers, and receive good and evil from their hands, than suffer only insult and degradation from her mother's parents."

"Then at least tell me your husband's name, and where his relations are to be found?"

"Alas! Gustave Eboli was an orphan, and poor; therefore my father said I should not love him. . . . But I feel very faint-you said I should see my child soon?"

At this very moment the sound of advancing steps was heard, and Monsieur Carron entered with Eleonore in his arms. He placed her on the bed with Madame Eboli. The little creature nestled close, kissing and embracing her mother in a transport of delight; soon, however, the strange sounds, the shadowy figures that flitted past with noiseless footsteps, startled and awed the child. And then her mother looked so sadly on her, that she wept, scarce knowing why, but in a subdued tone, as though some grief swelled her little heart too deeply to be given utter

ance.

near.

On his way to the hospital one morning, he overtook one Mr. Carron, and told him Madame Eboli's sad story, asking his aid. They had by that time reached the door of the hospital, and Mr. Carron ac

In my basket you will find a miniature of my sister, set in a pearl necklace; and a ring, my dear aunt's gift. Should she ever come to this country, which she has spoken of doing, her first inquiries would be concerning me. The name of Eleonore Eboli and these jewels, would be sufficient evidence. . . . There are two letters also, which I would have saved for Eleonore; they are her father's. . . . . . . My sister and my aunt are the only persons of my family who knew that my destination was America."

Here she paused, as if exhausted. Little Eleonore had ceased crying, and was gazing earnestly at her mother.

Madame Eboli continued-" And now, my Eleonore, listen-you must be good, and stay with this gentleman, who will love you like papa."

woman. I, who write this memoir, was there among the rest. It was intermission, and we were all amusing ourselves in the way we liked best. A desk next to mine was empty, and Eleonore was

"Where I shall soon see him, dear Eleonore! I am going to leave you. Never forget your poor mother." She then kissed the child several times. "There is some of papa's hair in the locket around my neck." Then addressing the gentlemen, she added: "Take it when I am gone-not till then." Madame Eboli then sank into a stupor, in which she lay for half an hour; then opening her eyes, she only said:

"Gustave says come! . . . . My child we will watch over thee. Protect her, she is so young -so innocent. I come, Gustave-I come!" And the angel of death passed by and received her last breath. Sixteen summers had found her a child, eighteen a woman, and at twenty she was laid where the aged sleep.

"Be her sleep calm and deep,
Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.

CHAPTER IV. Eleonore became at once, by the death of her mo

ther, an inmate of the Carron family. Mr. Carron petted the child for a short time, and then she was given over to the servants, Madame Carron having something else to do, as she said, beside taking care of orphans.

Eleonore vegetated-I cannot use any other word -in the servants' rooms for six whole years. At the end of that time, fortunately for my heroine, Mr. Carron's affairs obliged him to leave this country suddenly. It was rumored that he ran away from his creditors, but I know nothing of the matter. The consequence to Eleonore was, that she was left with Mr. Carron's brother Jerome.

This brother Jerome had a very sensible wife, who was quite shocked at finding that the poor orphan had

not been instructed even in the common rudiments of knowledge. Her health was delicate, and as she could not undertake the charge of Eleonore's education,

she placed her forthwith at Mr. Delombre's boardingschool, one of the best in the city of New York.

I remember perfectly well the first time that I saw her. She was led by Madame Delombre into the schoolroom, and was there introduced to numbers of chil

*That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, died the son of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and hunger. He had been traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from France were discontinued. He found himself at Albany utterly without resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New York in hopes of finding the money, or of borrowing some from the French consul. His journey was a long and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold induced the return of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at the West. The French consul treated him harshly, dishelieved his story, and sent him to the hospital. The day after his death a large sum, directed to him, was received through a packet-ship, which had been detained at sea by a succession of disasters, two months longer than her usual time.

was withal so pretty, that I felt attracted to her. I essayed to make acquaintance by offering a part of nfy luncheon-she declined. I then continued, the ice being broken.

"Do you like going to school?"
"I do not know. I never went."

I suppose my eyes expressed astonishment, for she blushed. I wonder if we shall be in the same class? How old are you?”

"I am twelve years old," answered Eleonore. "Oh dear! I am between ten and eleven years old. I am afraid they will put you in the class above me!"

"What will be my studies?" said the young girl, timidly.

I gave her a catalogue of my own lessons, which made her look very blank, and I then proceeded to tell her who the scholars were, and which I liked the best; and I also gave her some information respecting the rules and regulations of the school.

"It is one o'clock," said the teacher. "The intermission is over!"

We hurried to our desks. I went to my lessons, and though Eleonore sat beside me I could speak no

more to her that afternoon. I saw, nevertheless,

that there would be no danger of her getting in the class above me for a long time to come.

CHAPTER V.

duced Eleonore as my companion at the desk. She Two years and a half have passed since I intro

was now between fifteen and sixteen. A tall and

finely formed girl for her age, her personal appearance was so pleasing that she attracted universal attention wherever she appeared. Her hair still curled in the same long golden locks; she had the straight Grecian nose, and the deep, large blue eyes

of her mother, and a noble forehead. Monsieur Delombre had more than fulfilled his promise. She was his best scholar.

had become inseparable. Every other Saturday had Our intimacy had continued increasing, and we been spent with her uncle and aunt; but as I was something of a favorite with Mr. Delombre, I was allowed to take her with me on the intervening Saturdays to my mother's house.

Oh, how happy we were then! She was so gay and so cheerful, except when we talked of France, for papa Carron had intimated in his letters to his brother, that the time was approaching when Eleonore must leave America, she being now of an age in which her services would be required by the family.

"She loved uncle and aunt Carron," she said, "and she dreaded papa and mamma Carron. She had kind friends in Mr. and Mrs. Delombre, and also in my mother's family. It was hard to be obliged to leave them, and live with those who cared not for