coarse, vigorous way, recorded so many of
Napoleon's victories. Nancy has not done
so ill for a small place.

The central point of Nancy is the Place
Stanislas, which is really dignified with its
statue and fountains, its Hôtel de Ville,
theatre, and bishop's house. The Place de
la Carrière comes next, with its palais de
justice, tribunals, and the palace of the
ancient governor. The University is in the
Place de la Grève, and the public library
of twenty-three thousand volumes in the old
University, Rue Stanislas. The churches
have one or two points of interest. Some
ancient frescoes in the Chapel of the
Conception, St. Epvre, injured by repainting,
and a bas-relief of the Lord's Supper, by
Drouin, a local sculptor, deserve notice.
In the Church of the Cordeliers there are
the tombs of the Vaudrémonts, not to be
overlooked. The kneeling statues of Antoine
de Vaudrémont and his lady (1447) are by
Drouin; Ligier Richier's statue of Philippa
of Gueldres is much admired, and the tomb
of Callot must not be passed by.

This quaint nook of Lorraine, to which a
terrible interest attaches at the present,
will be, when the war cloud has rolled
away, well worth the attention of tourists
tired of the old lions.

IN THAT STATE OF LIFE.

CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. HICKS rallied very slowly. Weeks
passed; and her condition was still one
that required constant watching. Having
undertaken this duty, Maud could not
abandon it; and she became daily fonder
of the gentle, unselfish old lady, so that
her labour grew to be one of love. On the
other hand, as was only natural, Mrs. Hicks
was now strongly attached to her young
companion.

"I do not know what I should do now,
my dear, if I were to lose you. You have
spoilt me. We have never had anything
young in the house before you came. As
Martha says, you do us all good." For
Maud's energy, which had often flagged
at Beckworth, and had always been in a
chronic state of suppressed irritation at
Mortlands, had now free play. She read
aloud for hours, and answered all Mrs.
Hicks's letters; she visited such poor people
as the old lady wished, and dispensed her
charities; she paid all Mrs. Hicks's bills,
and attended her benevolent committees;
she took long walks, and returned home
laden with wild hyacinths and primroses.
The secret of this cheerful, untiring temper,
I believe, was the well-spring of a strong
hope within her. In vain she set a stone
upon the mouth of that spring; it bubbled
up all the same at unexpected times and
places. She had not heard Lowndes's
name since the day they parted: she knew
nothing of him, for good or evil: he was
probably back again with his old companions
and pursuits, and had forgotten her and
her preachings. It was only natural; it
would be contrary to nearly all precedent
if it were otherwise. So she said to herself,
repeatedly; but she did not believe it. She
declared that it would be sentimental folly
to rely upon anything he had said; but she
did rely upon it. Love is, even now, sometimes
stronger than prudence and worldly
wisdom. Then, as regarded Mrs. Cartaret,
she felt a conviction that, even if Lowndes
remained constant, his mother would never
yield. She knew the old lady's pride and
prejudice so well. After what had passed,
Mrs. Cartaret would never open her arms
to receive Maud, and without such opening
of arms Maud was still resolute that
she would never become Lowndes's wife.
But, in spite of all, Maud was not
despondent.

John Miles did not return to Salisbury
for two or three weeks, the account of his
aunt being better, and his own judgment
pointing out that it was wiser to leave
Maud at peace for a time, before renewing
his suit. Then at last he did come, and
stayed three days. During that time Maud
kept out of his way as much as possible:
and Mrs. Hicks was always devising
innocent little stratagems (which she regarded
as Machiavelian in their diplomacy, but
which would not have deceived a child)
in order to throw the young people together.
But Maud's avoidance was not to be
misunderstood; eager as poor John was to
catch at any straw, there was none held
out; he must drown—at all events for the
present. She was cordial and friendly in
her manner until they were tête-à-tête; if
this was unavoidable, she froze up, as Maud
had a special faculty for doing, making one
feel that any nearer approach would be
slippery, not to say dangerous. He went
away without having said a word. But his
aunt was not so perspicacious.

"My dear," she said, one day when they
were alone, "I have been hesitating for a
long time whether I should say something
to you. But I may not be here very long,