however (whether I was right or wrong in
doing so is questionable), and waited to hear
more.

"And my sister says that the reason why
all strangers from far countries cannot speak
as we do, is, because they have a dark line
right down their tongues. Now you must
have a line down your tongue, though I am
not tall enough to see it!"

The creed of this valiant little follow in
respect to lines and tongues had evidently
been built, long since, upon a rock of ages of
loving faith in what his sister had told him.
Besides; how do I know? I never saw my
tongue except in a looking-glass, and that may
have been false. My tongue may have five
hundred lines crossing it at every imaginable
angle, for aught I know.

So, we three, oddly assorted trio went
chattering on, till the shadows warned me
that twilight was fast approaching, and that
I had two miles to walk to the town where
I had appointed to sleep. Remembering
then, that the little man had " done my
affair for me," in an early stage of our
interview in the way of bread and cheese
and wine, and not choosing to be really the
poor traveller I seemed, I drew out a five-
franc piece, and proffered payment.

Both the children refused the coin; and
the little maid said gravely, " Mamma said
that we were always to take care of poor
travellers. What we have given you is
pour l'amour de Dieu, —for God's sake."

I tried to force some trifle on them as a
gift, but they would have none of my coin.
Seeing then that I looked somewhat disappointed,
the little man, like a profound diplomatist
as he was, smoothed away the difficulty
in a moment.

"If you like to go as far as you can
see to the right, towards the town," he
said, "you will find a blind old woman,
playing upon a flageolet, and sitting at a
cakestall by the way side. And if you like
to buy us some gingerbread: —for three sous
she will give you—oh! like that! " For the
last time in this history he extended his
arms in sign of measurement.

I went as far as I could see, which was not
far, and found the blind old woman playing
on a flageolet, and not seeing at all.
Of her, did I purchase gingerbread, with
brave white almonds in it: following my
own notions of measurement, I may hint, in
respect to the number of sous-worth.

Bringing it back to the children, I took
them up, and kissed them and bade
them good-bye. Then I left them to
the gingerbread and the desolate cabaret,
until mamma should return from the fields,
and that famous domestic institution, the
"soupe," of which frequent mention had
already been made during our intercourse,
should be ready.

I have never seen them since; I shall never
see them again; but, if it ever be my lot to
be no longer solitary, I pray that I may
have a boy and girl, as wise, and good, and
innocent as I am sure those little children
were.

THE SIXTH POOR TRAVELLER,

WAS the little widow. She had been sitting
by herself in the darkest corner of the room
all this time; her pale face often turned anxiously
toward the door, and her hollow eyes
watching restlessly, as if she expected some
one to appear. She was very quiet, very
grateful for any little kindness, very meek
in the midst of her wildness. There was a
strained expression in her eyes, and a
certain excited air about her altogether,
that was very near insanity; it seemed
as if she had once been terrified by some
sudden shock, to the verge of madness.

When her turn came to speak, she began
in a low voice—her eyes still glancing to
the door—and spoke as if to herself rather
than to the rest of us; speaking low but
rapidly—somewhat like a somnambule repeating
a lesson:

They advised me not to marry him (she
began). They told me he was wild—unprincipled
—bad; but I did not care for what
they said. I loved him and I disbelieved
them. I never thought about his goodness
—I only knew that he was beautiful
and gifted beyond all that I had ever met
with in our narrow society. I loved him,
with no passing school-girl fancy, but with my
whole heart—my whole soul. I had no
life, no joy, no hope without him, and heaven
would have been no heaven to me if he
had not been there. I say all this, simply
to show what a madness of devotion mine
was.

My dear mother was very kind to me
throughout. She had loved my father,
I believe, almost to the same extent; so that
she could sympathise with me even while
discouraging. She told me that I was wrong
and foolish, and that I should repent: but I
kissed away the painful lines between her
eyes, and made her smile when I tried to
prove to her that love was better than
prudence. So we married: not so much
without the consent as against the wish of my
family; and even that wish withheld in sorrow
and in love. I remember all this now,
and see the true proportions of everything;
then, I was blinded by my passions, and
understood nothing.

We went away to our pretty, bright home
in one of the neighbourhoods of London,
near a park. We lived there for many months
—I in a state of intoxication rather than of
earthly happiness, and he was happy, too,
then, for I am sure he was innocent, and I
know he loved me. Oh, dreams—dreams!

I did not know my husband's profession.
He was always busy and often absent; but he
never told me what he did. There had been