in contemplation between the high-born and
accomplished———and their distinguished
visitor, M. Bertram de' Medici, what sport
he should have when his credentials afterwards
arrived! His fun would live for ever
in the horror of all Damburgville. He would
bow to his select friends whenever he met
them, and mock at them in the public street.
His malicious reverie occupied his attention
so completely at one minute, that he ceased
to observe whither he was going, and following
mechanically in the track of many persons
who were on the way before him, was aroused
by finding himself in a blaze of light.

He had entered a church. That too was
funny. He wondered how long it had been
since he was in such a place before, and
determined that he might as well look about
him there a little, as it would be long enough
before he met with such another opportunity.
He stared about, and saw what is usually to
be seen at the hour of the Benediction, an
altar lighted, a priest officiating, and a kneeling
congregation, mostly made up of women.

It was the church belonging to a convent
of the nuns of St. Mary Ann. These nuns
cultivate music, and are often skilled in it;
so much so that they sometimes teach singing.
They form an unseen choir in their own
public services. While Bertram was gazing
carelessly around, the temper of his mind
corresponding to the grin upon his countenance,
the choir of nuns began to sing the
Salve Regina. He was impressed by the
effect of the music, and sat down to enjoy
more at his ease, for the first time after very
many years, the harmony of treble voices.
By degrees he ceased to know that he was
listening. He was receiving the sounds
passively, giving himself up wholly to the new
and exquisite sensation.

After a little while he had forgotten all
that was about him; he saw nothing. The
music had become his atmosphere, in which
he seemed to be alone with something
pure and powerful. Its power was put
forth more and more strongly, his heart
was strangely stirred, his brain was full
of visions. It was all involuntary. The
refinement of his early training perhaps made
him capable of being overcome by the
supreme power of sweet sounds. I do not
know, but I tell what is true, though I
envelope truth within a mystery of vain and
foolish names. Bertram de' Medici saw the
history of his own life, from youth upwards,
floating upon the chant. He shuddered at the
memory of things over which, in the acting,
he had been indifferent, or even pleased. The
realities of his whole life seemed to be loathsome.
For the first time he saw them as
they looked in contrast with ideal purity.
Plunged thus into contemplation, he was left
unconscious of the ceasing of the music, and
he did not know what other portions of the
service followed it, how long the whole lasted
or when all was at an end. He did not know
that the lights were all out, and that the
church doors were about to be closed, when
the sacristan found him, still kneeling, weeping
on the pavement.

It was not till the next morning that the
convict thought of his unfulfilled engagement
at the theatre. He made several efforts to
bring back his old feelings, to restore his
pride in his own evil. They were vain, for
the music held him fast. He walked out to
reflect. His new feelings would not be
repelled—they seemed to have become part of
his nature; and at length he yielded willingly
to their dominion. Before he returned to
the house he had sought counsel of a priest,
and had delivered into the hands of the
mayor the letter of introduction which at
once placed him in his true position.

It may be supposed that the office which
had been so eagerly accepted by De' Medici
became afterwards an occasion of extreme
distress; but there was left to him no possibility
of an exchange; he must go through
with what he had begun. He is now, therefore,
the headsman at Damburgville, in which
town he leads an exemplary lile.

THE ROBINS.

WE'RE leaving the old home, robins,
  To morrow-morn in vain
Your tiny bills shall tap for us,
  Against the well-known pane.
I've thought all day how I might find
  (Weak fancy though it be)
Some kindly spell to print our names
  On your bird-memory.

Blithe children we were all, robins,
  When long and long ago,
You flashed on our delighted eyes
  Like rubies in the snow.
How soon the new and precious pets
  Grew intimate and bold!
And then the 'Children in the Wood,'
  With family-pride we told.

I fancied when a child, robins,
  Nay, more than fancied, felt,
Because its name was Faëry-Hill,
  That here the fairies dwelt.
The lilies seemed their palaces,
  The roses royal bowers,
Sweet homes and tiny cottages
  Were all the meaner flowers.

That myrtle— when 'twas set, robins,
  So fresh and bright were both,
That tree and child, my father said,
  Were twins in healthy growth.
The tree has flourished fair since then
  But I, I scarcely know
The tint of my old flush of health,
  Which faded long ago.

You left me not for that, robins,
  But trustingly would lead
To my sick bed your chirping brood,
  From this weak hand to feed.