luxury, a wood fire, in a great open
fireplace in the parlour, and our pets were
brought in; for we thought they would
enjoy the warmth and the glow immensely.
But they were evidently awe-struck at the
sight, and, from a safe distance, eyed, with
startled or solemn faces, the beautiful
lambent mystery, the splendid terror. And
yet they had never feared the great sun in
his glory. As his mighty mantle rested
on the earth, they had slept under its folds,
and played with its golden fringe. So we,
unawed by the majestic mysteries of
Nature, stand wide-eyed with wonder before
the imitative marvels of human art, with
their brief crackle and blaze. The spurt of
a rocket dims the trail of a comet, and a
balloon can cause a solar eclipse.

They, ever grew in favour as in comeliness,
and so when, in the early autumn,
there came to the writer a dark dread time
of sickness, robbing that golden season of
its light and bloom and gracious coolness,
it did not banish the memory of her merry
little "ancients." As soon as the first
bitterness and stress of suffering had
passed, and the low-ebbed life began to
flow back, she asked for the five little
sisters, feeling that somehow they, mute
little creatures of a single summer, could
best assure her of the unwasted fulness,
the quick vitality, the spring and rebound
and eternal gladness of Nature. She often
had them on her bed— all five— where they
slept diligently most of their time, finding
her but languid company, but where the
sight of their play or repose alike seemed
to do her good. In the intervals of listless
ease from pain, she watched the pretty
creatures, and, remembering the separations
and tragedies that await the happiest
feline families:

          It was a sight that made her grieve,
          Although the sight was fair.

Indeed, speculations on the kittens' after-
fate often troubled us. There was such
an alarming increase in the cat population
of the farm, and the creek was at such a
convenient distance! But, finally, the children
formed themselves into a Kittens' Aid
Society, and obtained the promise of good
homes in neighbouring houses for four of
the sisters; the fifth was to remain in her
own home. So, one dreary morning, we
took leave of them all— Lily, Daisy, Pet,
Snowdrop, and Dewdrop— with tolerable
cheerfulness; but those jolly little
companions, those small summer friends,
sinless and soulless, fond and forgetful,
innocent ingrates, honest inconstants, will long
fill a bright space in our memory, and no
proud human philosopher shall cast them
out with his arrogant reason, or bully them
with his immortality.

A SOUL'S PARTING.

ON a fine September evening in the south
of France, when the purple glow of the
western sky lightened the purple of the
vine-clad hills, the town of Tarbes was
excited. A bad railway accident had
happened near it, and the injured passengers
were being taken, some in carriages and
some on stretchers (according to the greater
or less severe nature of the harm they had
received) from the station up into the town.
With all the impressive warmth of the
Basque population in general, the citizens
crowded round the slow procession; the
women with tears in those large dark eyes
which seem the birthright of the daughters
of the Pyrenees, the men eagerly extending
their strong arms to help to carry the
wounded. Among the sufferers was a young
man, who lay pale and motionless upon a
stretcher. In him the good people of Tarbes
took especial interest, partly because he was
good-looking and apparently much hurt,
partly because a lady walked beside him,
who was evidently herself much bruised
and shaken, but who, notwithstanding the
recommendations of those around her, and
even of a medical man who was hurrying
about among the patients, that she should
leave her companion and get into one of
the carriages, still kept close to him and
tried to support his head upon her arm.
She was young and also good-looking; and
the language in which she now and then
spoke words of compassion or endearment to
the unconscious man as she bent over him,
as well as the golden shade of her light
brown hair, were of the north. Moreover,
the wreath of orange flowers on her bonnet
announced her as a bride. Some would have
inferred the same truth from the blush
which, even in the midst of her distress and
preoccupation, now and then rose to the
young lady's cheek when she noticed that
her tenderness for the injured man was
commented upon in the crowd.

In fact Clara— her name was Clara— had
not been the wife of Mr. Charles Temple
for more than a week. Mr. Charles Temple
was a young man who had achieved the
rare distinction of getting credit to himself
with the British public for a volume of
poems. In his quality of poet Mr. Charles
Temple had during his courtship of Miss