required to reside in or near Paris, nine months
out of the year, for the purpose of delivering
lectures, and superintending experiments
from time to time, in the laboratories." The
letter in which these lines occurred, offered
him such a position as in his modest self-distrust,
he had never dreamed of before: the
lines themselves contained the promise of
such vast facilities for carrying on his favourite
experiments, as he could never hope to
command in his own little study, with his
own limited means; and yet, there he now
sat, doubting whether he should accept or
reject the tempting honours and advantages
that were offered to him— doubting for his
sister's sake!

"Nine months of the year in Paris," he
said to himself, sadly; "and Rose is to pass
her married life at Lyons. Oh! if I could
clear my heart of its dread on her account—
if I could free my mind of its forebodings for
her future — how gladly I would answer this
letter by accepting the trust it offers me!" He
paused for a few minutes, and reflected. The
thoughts that were in him marked their
ominous course in the growing paleness of his
cheek, in the dimness that stole over his eyes.
"If this cleaving distrust from which I cannot
free myself, should be in very truth the
mute prophecy of evil to come— to come, I
know not when— if it be so (which God forbid),
how soon she may want a friend, a
protector near at hand, a ready refuge in the
time of her trouble! Where shall she then
find protection, or refuge? With that
passionate woman? With her husband's kindred
and friends?"

He shuddered, as the thought crossed his
mind; and opening a blank sheet of paper,
dipped his pen in the ink. "Be all to her,
Louis, that I have been," he murmured to
himself, repeating his mother's last words,
and beginning the letter, while he uttered
them. It was soon completed. It expressed
in the most respectful terms, his gratitude
for the offer made to him, and his inability to
accept it, in consequence of domestic circumstances
which it was needless to explain.
The letter was directed, sealed: it only
remained for him to place it in the post-bag,
lying near at hand. At this last, decisive
act, he hesitated. He had told Lomaque, and
he had firmly believed himself, that he had
conquered all ambitions for his sister's sake.
He knew now, for the first time, that he had
only lulled them to rest— he knew that the
letter from Paris had aroused them. His
answer was written, his hand was on the post-
bag; and at that moment the whole struggle
had to be risked over again— risked when he
was most unfit for it! He was not a man
under any ordinary circumstances, to procrastinate;
but he procrastinated now. ''Night
brings counsel: I will wait till to-morrow,"
he said to himself, and put the letter of
refusal in his pocket, and hastily quitted the
laboratory.

Inexorably that important morrow came:
irretrievably, for good or for evil, the
momentous marriage vow was pronounced.
Charles Danville and Rose Trudaine were
now man and wife. The prophecy of the
magnificent sunset overnight had not proved
false. It was a cloudless day on the marriage
morning. The nuptial ceremonies had
proceeded smoothly throughout, and had even
satisfied Madame Danville. She returned
with the wedding-party to Trudaine's house,
all smiles and serenity. To the bride she
was graciousness itself. "Good girl," said
the old lady, following Rose into a corner,
and patting her approvingly on the cheek
with her fan. "Good girl! you have looked
well this morning— you have done credit to
my son's taste. Indeed, you have pleased
me, child! Now go upstairs, and get on
your travelling dress; and count on my
maternal affection as long as you make
Charles happy."

It had been arranged that the bride and
bridegroom should pass their honeymoon in
Brittany, and then return to Danville's estate
near Lyons. The parting was hurried over,
as all such partings should be. The carriage
had driven off— Trudaine, after lingering
long to look after it, had returned hastily to
the house— the very dust of the whirling
wheels had all dispersed— there was
absolutely nothing to see—and yet, there stood
Monsieur Lomaque at the outer gate; idly, as
if he was an independent man— calmly, as if
no such responsibilities as the calling of
Madame Danville's coach, and the escorting of
Madame Danville back to Lyons, could
possibly rest on his shoulders.

Idly and calmly, slowly rubbing his hands
one over the other, slowly nodding his head
in the direction by which the bride and
bridegroom had departed, stood the eccentric
land-steward at the outer gate. On a sudden,
the sound of footsteps approaching from the
house seemed to arouse him. Once more he
looked out into the road, as if he expected
still to see the carriage of the newly-married
couple. "Poor girl!— ah, poor girl!" said
Monsieur Lomaque softly to himself, turning
round to ascertain who was coming from the
house.

It was only the postman with a letter in
his hand, and the post-bag crumpled up under
his arm.

"Any fresh news from Paris, friend?"
asked Lomaque.

"Very bad, monsieur," answered the postman.
"Camille Desmoulins has appealed to
the people in the Palais Royal— there are
fears of a riot."

"Only a riot!" repeated Lomaque,
sarcastically. "Oh, what a brave government not
to be afraid of anything worse! Any
letters?" he added, hastily dropping the
subject.

"None to the house," said the postman
"only one from it, given me by Monsieur