was again broken off, Angelo repented his
rashness, and suffered his old love to revive.

I do not know if Gertrude ever knew all this,
but I sometimes fancied that she guessed it. At
least she saw that he was changed, and the light
in her blue eyes faded, and her step grew very
slow and very weak. Then came a long period
of illness, and at its close Gertrude was again at
her old station by the window, watching the
road. But not so earnestly; her gaze was
oftener directed to the infant on her lap, that
was all in all to her, as she was all in all to it.
One evening monsieur was later than usual in
coming in, and I had been sitting with madame
in the twilight, helping to nurse the baby, and
trying to cheer its mother, for she was out of
spirits, and said she did not feel well. There
was a step on the stairs, and a faint colour
came into Gertrude's cheek, and she popped
the baby into its cradle. I was leaving the room
as monsieur entered. I saw him kiss his wife,
inquire after her health. I heard his words.

"Not feeling strong! The fact is, Gertrude,
you will never be strong while you keep poking
in the house. I'll hire Barnes's gig, and take
you a drive to-morrow. There, don't say 'No.'
It will do you good."

I did not hear her answer, but I know she
never went contrary to anything he said; and
next morning she asked me to take baby while
she was out. To this moment I can recal the
sweet expression of her countenance, as she
looked up to the window where I was holding
the baby, and nodded farewell.

It was late before she came in. The wind
had risen, and there was a drizzling rain in the
air. Her cloak was wet when I helped her off
with it, and she complained of chilliness.

Before that day week she was dead. The
exposure had caused inflammation, and she sank
rapidly.

She sent for me into the room, that last night,
and herself put the baby into my arms, and bade
me keep and guard it as my own child. And,
with the night-lamp only breaking the gloom, and
the father speechless with remorse, I knelt by
the dying mother and received the trust, to guard
and give it back to its mother in a better place.

We buried her in the old churchyard behind
the house, where we could see her grave as we
passed backwards and forwards, and where the
baby's eye might fall on her place of rest. Poor
Gertrude!—poor little soul!

At Christmas the signor gave up his
engagements in the town, and went abroad.
He was going again to Germany. Some
months after, I heard he had married
Vittoria Ernstein, and it did not surprise me.
They came to England, and he obtained some
other engagement in the south, for his place at
Aiskrigg was filled up. Once they wrote
something about taking the child, but the offer was
not made earnestly, and when I repeated the
story of my promise to the dead mother, they
said no more. So Gertrude's baby stays with us
in the old house, and makes our hearts' sunshine
with her sweet ways and mother's eyes.
"Angelina" her mother called her; and so she is—
our little angel. God bless and make us better,
for her sake!

PHOTOGRAPHIC PRINT.

PHOTOGRAPHY has become a science, with
a literature of her own. She maintains several
journals, and a photographic almanac which loyally
records, against the 7th of February, "Regnault
proposes pyrogallic acid, 1851;" against the 4th
of April, "Archer introduces collodion, 1851."
Instead of births and deaths of Napoleons or
Nelsons, it registers "Niepce died," or
"Daguerre bora," and begins an annual address—
using a new form of an old fashion—with the
phrase, "Courteous Photographer."

Scarcely twenty years have elapsed since the
art of printing pictures by means of the sun was
first announced, and now hardly a month passes
in which some improved process of manipulation
is discovered, or some new substance made
available for printing, which does not usually
effect all that its sanguine discoverer expects
from it, but which is at all events another bit of
knowledge. At the last meeting of the British
Association, Sir John Herschell even announced
the discovery by himself of a group of metals,
one of which—he has named it Junonium—is
found, when in the form of a salt, to be
powerfully acted upon by light. In these continual
discoveries of new substances and processes one
finds reason for hope that perfection in the
photographic art is yet to be obtained. Many who
are familiar with the charming photographs we
get from some of the skilled artists in sunshine
may fancy that perfection is attained already. So
far as the present appearance of their pictures is
concerned this may be true; but one serious
drawback upon them is their want of stability.
Probably before a dozen years have elapsed most
of them will have lost their beauty, some will
have entirely disappeared. It is to their
ingorance of this want of stability in photography that
the desire of some eminent men for fac-similes in
photograph of rare books is to be imputed.

There is hope, however, that this trouble will
soon be overcome. The subject of permanency
in photographs has, in France, been thought so
important, that the Duke de Luynes has offered
a prize of eight thousand francs to the discoverer
of means of printing photographs in carbon.
Carbon resists every known chemical agent, and
is in no way affected by light. There will be
several competitors for the duke's prize. Already
a Mr. Pouncy, an Englishman, has announced
his discovery of a method of printing in carbon,
and a favourable opinion of the pictures he has
produced by his process has been expressed by
some competent judges.

The discovery is only of use for the printing
in the ordinary way of photographs that must,
from the nature of some of the substances used
in them, always be too dear for the million. M.
Sella, of Biella, in Piedmont, pointed out, nearly
two years ago, a way of using salts of iron and
chromium instead of those of silver and gold.