termed it; but, finding her efforts unavailing,
she had resolved during her winter in
Touraine, to devote herself to the language,
drawing it pure from the source; and agreed
to sacrifice ten francs per month, in order,
by daily hours of devotion, to reach the goal.
An inveterate Tipperary accent interfered
slightly with her views, but she hit on an
ingenious expedient for concealing the defect;
this was, never to open her mouth to more
than half its size in speaking; and always to
utter her English in a broken manner, which
might convey to the stranger the idea of her
being a foreigner. She had her cards printed
as Mademoiselle Durté, which made the
illusion complete.

But these pupils were not to be entirely relied
on for producing an income—Mademoiselle
Honorine could scarcely reckon on the
advantages they presented for a continuance,
sanguine as she was. In fact, she may be
said to have, as a certainty, only one
permanent pupil, whom she looks upon as her
chief stay, and her gratitude for this source
of emolument is such, that she is always ready
to evince her sense of its importance by
adopting the character of nursemaid, classical
teacher—although her knowledge of the dead
languages is not extensive—or general governess,
approaching the maternal character the
nearer from the compassion she feels for the
pretty little orphan English boy, who lives
under the care of an infirm old grandmother.
With this little gentleman, whose domicile
is situated about two miles from her own, at
the top of a steep hill, she walks, and talks,
and laughs, and teaches, and enjoys herself so
much, that she considers it but right to
reward him for the pleasure he gives her by
expending a few sous everyday in sweetmeats
for his delectation; this sum making a
considerable gap in the monthly salary his
grandmother is able to afford. However, her
disinterestedness is not thrown away here,
and I learn with singular satisfaction that
Mademoiselle Honorine having been detected
in the act of devouring her dry crust, by way
of breakfast, and her pupil having won from
her the confession that she never had any
other, a cup of hot chocolate was always
afterwards prepared and offered to her by the
little student as soon as she entered his study.
When I had an opportunity of judging—a
fact which more than once occurred to me—
of the capabilities of Mademoiselle Honorine's
appetite, I was gratified, though surprised, to
find that nothing came amiss to her; that
she could enjoy anything in the shape of fish,
flesh, or fowl, and drank a good glass of
Bordeaux, or even Champagne, with singular glee.

It happened, not long since, that the friend
who had revealed to me the secret of her
manner of life, was suddenly called upon to
pay a sum of money on some railway shares
she possessed; and, being unprepared, was
lamenting in the presence of Mademoiselle
Honorine, the inconvenience she was put to.

The next day, the lively little dame
appeared with a canvas bag in her hand,
containing no less a sum than five hundred
francs. "Here," she said, smiling, "is the exact
sum you want. It is most lucky I should
happen to have as much. I have been
collecting it for years; for, you know, in case of
sickness, one likes to avoid being a burden
to one's friends. It is at your service for as
long a time as you like, and you will relieve
me from anxiety in taking it into your
hands." It was impossible to refuse the offer;
and the good little woman was thus enabled to
repay the many kindnesses she had received,
and to add greatly to her own dignity; of
which she is very tenacious.

"Ah! " said a Parisian lady to her one day,
after hearing of her thousand occupations
and privations, " how do you contrive to live;
and what can you care about life? I should
have had recourse to charcoal long ago, if I
had been in your situation. Yet you are
always laughing and gay, as if you dined on
foiegras and truffles every day of your
existence!"

"So I do," replied the little heroine—" at
least on what is quite as good—for I have all
I want, all I care about, never owing a sous,
and being a charge to no one. Besides, I have
a secret happiness which nothing can take
away; and, when I go into the church of a
morning to mass, I thank God with all my
heart for all the blessings he gives me, and,
above all, for the extreme content which
makes all the world seem a paradise of
enjoyment. I never know what it is to be
dull, and as for charcoal, I have no objection
to it in a foot-warmer, but that is
all the acquaintance I am likely to make
with it."

"Poor soul! " returned the Parisienne, "how
I pity you!"

THE CITY OF SUDDEN DEATH.

WE are at Naples; and, before us, is a stand
of Neapolitan cabs. We make a bargain
with the driver of one of these vehicles to be
taken to Pompeii, are cheated, and get in.
The animals in front, shaking themselves
under their tawdry, jingling harness, start
off at a pace which I should have deemed
incredible in anything but a Hansom. One
dirty street follows another dirty street; one
noxious smell succeeds another noxious smell;
and we find ourselves fast hurrying through
the city of the living in the direction of the
City of the Dead.

The first circumstance to which I wish to
call attention is, that we are sitting in an
open carriage on the eighth of January, without
a great-coat, in light summer clothing,
and yet we perspire. Can this be the same
world as that which we have left behind us?
Is it possible that, at the distance of a few
days' journey, our relatives are shivering and
shaking over a fire: that the letters which