On entering the vestibule, he found that the old femmé-de- · charge was there awaiting him. Maddle. Latour was greatly changed by age and sorrow; but still the count had no difficulty in recognising her. She made him a low curtsey, and felicitated him upon his return to his château; but her voice trembled, and refused to obey her will, before she had finished her first sentence. Prosper pressed her hand affectionately, more touched by the tears which trickled down her cheeks than he would have been by the finest of studied compliments. Behind Maddle. Latour, he saw was standing discretely, Maddle. Heroé, now become a tall and handsome maiden of about twenty; she was clothed in her best garments, in order to do honour to her master, and she regarded curiously, with her large, searching eyes, this fine officer, of whom her imagination had so long preserved so lively a remembrance.

We cannot say what were the impressions of the young maiden, nor whether the Count de Rouillé, after the interval of ten years, which had passed since she first saw him, at all answered to the image which she had so carefully preserved. As for Prosper himself, however, he was surprised in a fashion de cidedly agreeable, at recognising in the beautiful girl before him the little shepherdess whom he had aided to take her first upward step in the world. His unexpected meeting with her served in some measure to distract him from his sad thoughts; and when he was seated at his solitary dinner, his looks reposed with considerable satisfaction upon the graceful form of Mademoiselle Heroé, as she watched over the good order and regu larity of the service, with her costume of brilliant colours and waving, graceful lines; her white head-dress, regularly fixed upon the neatly tied bands of her auburn hair; the graceful folds of her skirt of rich brown cloth; her animated figure; and her countenance rather burnt by the sun, and somewhat highly coloured by the fresh air in the fields; together with her ruddy lips. and her fine eyes, offered the perfect type of the rustic beauty in all the freshness and splendour of early womanhood.

During the few days immediately following, Prosper renewed his old acquaintance with Jeannette, and perceived that her character and intellect were developed to as great an extent as her personal charms. It was evidently she who ordered everything. Jeannette had an eye to everything, and directed everything with a tranquil decision, and an assured air. So Prosper found the house in a state of far less disorder than he had anticipated. He was obliged to attribute the circumstance, in a great measure, to Jeannette, and he could not refrain from thanking her expressly. The young maiden received his thanks without timidity,

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but also without pride, and they did not cause her to be more overbearing with regard to her subordinates than heretofore. This character, so grave and decided, united to so much gaiety and freshness, amused Prosper greatly. He examined Jeannette, followed her with his eyes, and received the advice which, from time to time, she thought well to offer him, and which he generally found it by far the best to follow. In short, he diverted himself by submitting voluntarily to the empire which every one else in the château obeyed. It was a dangerous game for him to play, and one ultimately fraught with peril. He was not slow to perceive that his thoughts were occupied with Jeannette much oftener than business rendered necessary, and that her beautiful face and fresh bursts of laughter were incessantly present to his imagination. The coffee seemed excellent when Jeannette served him with it, but execrable when served by any one else; and it was so in a thousand other similar ways. But the count did not suffer himself to be alarmed at these menacing signs; for the comparatively humble position of Jeannette, the impossibility of commencing with her any tender conversation with any other word than that of marriage, seemed to him to preclude the possibility of danger.

He was returning one evening from a visit to one of his cousins, and although it was not yet late, the day was on the decline, and, his dinner-hour being near, the count, who had habituated himself latterly to habits of punctuality, hurried himself, in order that he might not be behind the appointed moment. His thoughts were running, as usual, upon Jeannette. This was, perhaps, the reason why he trembled so violently, when, in coming within a few hundred yards of the château, he heard a woman's voice, speaking with precaution, on the other side of the hedge that bordered his path. He drew up suddenly, and bent his head to listen, but it was another voice, and that a masculine one, which spoke next; and although it spoke with considerable precaution, Prosper could plainly hear it say, in a tone of reproach, "You are always in such haste to leave me whenever we meet now: it was not so of old."

The female voice made some reply to this; but what it was Prosper could not distinguish. The male voice then further responded, "That is true. I know it very well; but, in spite of all, I tell you it cannot last long. He is not very young, it is true, but neither is he so old as you imagine and say he is, and the world will talk of it."

To be concluded in our next.

COMMON THINGS.

How importa at it is to know something about the common things which surround us. But generally speaking, how ignorant people are in relation to them. Philosophers in ancient times knew more of the planets than of their own bodies. They were more concerned about things distant and mysterious than things within their very reach, and about which it was essential for their health and correct conduct of life, that they should know something. It is too much the case in the present day. Ask a young lady how she likes a certain book, and she will say "Oh, there is nothing in it interesting." Interesting to her means something romantic, light, or gossipy. If a number of a periodical contains no tale or story after her style, it is thrown aside as worthless, when, at the same time, the work might contain valuable information about the food she eats, the air she breathes, or the clothes she wears. Perhaps it might contain an article on the human hand, the blood, brain, or hair; or tell how carpets are manufactured, or cotton cultivated. But it is all the same to her. It did not please her fancy or excite her admiration. She is a sentimental young lady, and nothing in our periodical literature passes current with her, unless it is steeped in the hues of fancy. She wants something in which the feelings are entangled, something with a vein of the unusual and extraordinary running through it. Talk to her, and you will find that she has sighed and wept over some imaginary unfortunate one who was disappointed in love, and who died broken-hearted; or, it may be, smiled in triumpli over the sinister designs and baffled plans of some old guardian or uncle who thought more of "appearances" and "expectations" than of human affections. But talk to her about the note paper on which she writes, its manufacture and nature, or about the sealing-wax she uses, and you will find her shamefully ignorant. The story of the "man in the moon" would be read with avidity; but how the moon changes in her appearances from new to full, or from full to new, or how she gets eclipsed, the sentimental young lady has ever been an utter stranger. I have met with those who could tell me all about the tales which have appeared for years past in the "Family Herald,” "London Journal," or "Chambers' Journal." They very well remember how Lucy triumphed over Clarissa, how Minny pined in secret and never told her love; or how Julia, just as she was about to take the awful leap over London-bridge, was arrested by the mysterious man with black whiskers, who wore a cloak; they can relate to you with precision how the carriage broke

down, when the lovers were flying to Gretna-green; or how Sir Jasper Blond and Lord Mable fought a duel, and how Sir Jasper fell, and was tenderly watched over by the blue eyes of Marian; or how the three-cornered letter was sent secretly in a bouquet of flowers, and discovered by the enraged father, which ended in the flight of the young lady at midnight from her chamber window with her beloved Charles, who came prepared with a rope ladder, a carriage, and postillions. And these very persons I have found totally ignorant of the ordinary things which surround them, of the world in which they live, its mountains, seas, lands, rivers, and cities; of the history of their own country, and the great names which glorify it. Yes, and I have found persons of this description ignorant of the name of the prime minister, and totally unconscious of the social and political events which were stirring around them. They have not known whether Sir Humphrey Davy was a Frenchman or an Englishman, whether he was poet, statesman, or philosopher. They could not tell through what country the Danube or Tiber flowed, or in what parts of the world Adrianople or Stocholme was situated.

Now I do not mean to say that young ladies or young gentle men should not read novels and pretty stories. I consider imaginative literature an exhaustless source of amusement and instruction. Some of the best thoughts and sentiments ever uttered have been uttered through fiction. Light literature is of incalculable value, and I very much pity the povertystricken soul who cannot enjoy it. But I do mean to say, that it is not creditable to any one to spend time in devouring novels and stories, and remain ignorant of the ordinary things of every day life. Besides, to a mind rightly balanced, and possessing ordinary power, the acquisition of useful information is as interesting as the perusal of a romance. He or she does not possess enviable mental abilities, who can only see the attractive or the extraordinary in works of fiction. The most common things of the world-such as the paving stones on which we walk, the flowers which bloom in our gardens, or the clouds which float over head, are rife with entertainment and instruction. What interesting associations cling around a lucifer match! What chapters could be written on a single blade of grass! Who has not been highly pleased by reading an account of the manufacture of a single needle? And so it is with everything we see, smell, or touch. The most extraordinary things of the world and of history, are frequently the most trifling. There is a disposition in some people to be charitable towards those never saw-some unknown inhabitant of Caffreland or

Kamschatka, and to be at the same time neglectful of the real objects of charity a few yards from their own doors. Some authors will go back to some past age for the plot of some romance, when more thrilling incidents are taking place every day in the next street. So it is with those persons who extract amusement and interest from the distant and the ideal, when the present and the familiar would afford more substantial enjoyment.

I do not wish it to be understood that the charge of ignorance of common things is confined to young ladies; young gentlemen are equally open to reproof and good advice. The "Times," in a leading article a short time since, on this very question said:—

"Common things are quite as much neglected and despised in the education of the rich as in that of the poor. It is wonderful how little a young gentleman may know when he has taken his University degree, especially if he has been industrious and stuck to his studies. He may really spend a long time in looking for somebody more ignorant than himself. If he talks with the driver of the stage-coach which lands him at his father's door, he finds he knows nothing of horses. If he falls in conversation with a gardener, he knows nothing of plants or flowers. If he walks into the fields, he does not know the difference between barley and rye; between rape and turnip; between lucerne and saintfoin; between natural and artificial grass. If he goes into a carpenter's yard, he does not know one wood from another."

It is frequently the case that the most valuable things are least appreciated, and the most familiar things least understood. How little do people generally esteem the true value of the most common blessings they enjoy. How little do we esteem such essential things as light, air, or water. They are so familiar to us that we bestow on them but a trifling consideration. The most uncommon things-things which are most difficult to get at, and which cost the most money, are most highly valued. At the same time, their intrinsic worth may be comparatively valueless. There is a great deal of truth in the old saying, "that familiarity breeds contempt." I have known people live under the very shadows of Westminster Abbey, and never once go within its classic and sacred walls-walls consecrated by beautiful memories and imperishable associations, and to see which many have gone thousands of miles over continents and seas. I have known people in country places to live on the very borders of beautiful parks, and never visit them even during summer time, when the grass