the cottages of various sizes, small separate
dwellings and boarding houses for the single;
each house will contain every possible
arrangement for adding to the comfort and
health of the inmates; the water is to be
pure, unaffected by the drainage; and smoke
is not to contaminate the atmosphere. The
total number of residences proposed to be
built eventually, as the demand for them may
arise, is seven hundred: of which one hundred
and sixty-four cottages and boarding-houses
have been already built, and are now occupied
by about a thousand persons.

After physic, sugar; and so, for the present,
ends our treatment of a difficult and painful
case.

SISTER ROSE.

IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER II.

FIVE years have elapsed since Monsieur
Blaireau stood thoughtfully at the gate of
Trudaine's house, looking after the carriage of
the bride and bridegroom, and seriously
reflecting on the events of the future. Great
changes have passed over that domestic
firmament in which he prophetically
discerned the little warning cloud. Greater
changes have passed over the firmament of
France.

What was Revolt five years ago is Revolution
now—revolution which has engulphed
thrones and principalities and powers; which
has set up crownless, inhereditary kings and
counsellors of its own, and has bloodily torn
them down again by dozens; which has
raged and raged on unrestrainedly in fierce
earnest, until but one king can still govern
and control it for a little while. That King
is named Terror, and seventeen hundred and
ninety-four is the year of his reign.

Monsieur Lomaque, land-steward no longer,
sits alone in an official-looking room in one
of the official buildings of Paris. It is
another July evening, as fine as that evening
when he and Trudaine sat talking together on
the bench overlooking the Seine. The
window of the room is wide open, and a faint,
pleasant breeze is beginning to flow through
it. But Lomaque breathes uneasily, as if
still oppressed by the sultry mid-day heat;
and there are signs of perplexity and trouble
in his face as he looks down absently now and
then into the street. The times he lives in are
enough of themselves to sadden any man's face.
In this fearful Reign of Terror no living being
in all the city of Paris can rise in the morning
and be certain of escaping the spy, the
denunciation, the arrest, or the guillotine,
before night. Such times are trying enough
to oppress any man's spirits; but Blaireau
is not thinking of them, or caring for them,
now. Out of a mass of papers which lie
before him on his old writing-table, he has
just taken up and read one, which has carried
his thoughts back to the past, and to the
changes which have taken, place since he
stood alone on the door-step of Trudaine's
house, pondering on what might happen.

More rapidly, even, than he had foreboded
those changes had occurred. In less time,
even, than he had anticipated, the sad
emergency for which Rose's brother had
prepared, as for a barely possible calamity,
overtook Trudaine, and called for all the
patience, the courage, the self-sacrifice, which
he had to give for his sister's sake. By slow
gradations downward, from bad to worse,
her husband's character manifested itself less
and less disguisedly almost day by day.
Occasional slights ending in habitual neglect;
careless estrangement turning to cool enmity;
small insults which ripened evilly to great
injuries—these were the pitiless signs which
showed her that she had risked all, and lost
all while still a young woman—these were the
unmerited afflictions which found her helpless,
and would have left her helpless, but for
the ever-present comfort and support of her
brother's self-denying love. From the first,
Trudaine had devoted himself to meet such
trials as now assailed him; and, like a man, he
met them, in defiance alike of persecution
from the mother and of insult from the son.
The hard task was only lightened when, as
time advanced, public trouble began to
mingle itself with private grief. Then
absorbing political necessities came as a relief
to domestic misery. Then it grew to be the
one purpose and pursuit of Danville's life
cunningly to shape his course so that he
might move safely onward with the advancing
revolutionary tide—he cared not whither, as
long as he kept his possessions safe and his
life out of danger.—His mother, inflexibly
true to her old-world convictions through all
peril, might entreat and upbraid, might talk
of honour and courage and sincerity—he
heeded her not, or heeded only to laugh. As
he had taken the false way with his wife, so
he was now bent on taking it with the world.
The years passed on: destroying changes
swept hurricane-like over the old governing
system of France; and still Danville shifted
successfully with the shifting times. The
first days of the Terror approached; in
public and in private—in high places and in low
—each man now suspected his brother.
Crafty as Danville was, even he fell under
suspicion at last, at head-quarters in Paris,
principally on his mother's account. This
was his first political failure, and, in a
moment of thoughtless rage and disappointment,
he wreaked the irritation caused by it
on Lomaque. Suspected himself, he in turn
suspected the land-steward. His mother
fomented the suspicion—Lomaque was
dismissed.

In the old times the victim would have been
ruined—in the new times he was simply
rendered eligible for a political vocation in life.
Lomaque was poor, quick-witted, secret, not
scrupulous. He was a good patriot, he had
good patriot friends, plenty of ambition, a