of intelligence passes between her and her
brother; and then she speaks to Lomaque.

"Will you follow me into the house," she
asks, "with as little delay as possible? I
have something that I very much wish to
show you."

Her brother waits till she is out of hearing;
then inquires anxiously what has happened
at Paris since the night when he and Rose
left it.

''Your sister is free," Lomaque answers.

"The duel took place, then?"

"The same day. They were both to fire
together. The second of his adversary asserts
that he was paralysed with terror: his own
second declares that he was resolved, however
he might have lived, to confront death
courageously by offering his life at the first
fire to the man whom he had injured. Which
account is true, I know not. It is only certain
that he did not discharge his pistol; that he
fell by his antagonist's first bullet; and that
he never spoke afterwards."

"And his mother?"

"It is hard to gain information. Her doors
are closed; the old servant guards her with
jealous care. A medical man is in constant
attendance, and there are reports in the house
that the illness from which she is suffering
affects her mind more than her body. I could
ascertain no more."

After that answer they both remain silent
for a little while—then rise from the bench
and walk towards the house.

"Have you thought yet about preparing
your sister to hear of all that has
happened?" Lomaque asks, as he sees the
lamplight glimmering in the parlour-window.

"I shall wait to prepare her till we are
settled again here—till the first holiday
pleasure of our return has worn off, and the quiet
realities of our every-day life of old have
resumed their way," answers Trudaine.

They enter the house. Rose beckons to
Lomaque to sit down near her, and
places pen and ink and an open letter
before him.

"I have a last favour to ask of you," she
says, smiling.

"I hope it will not take long to grant," he
rejoins; "for I have only to-night to be
with you. To-morrow morning, before you
are up, I must be on my way back to
Chalons."

"Will you sign that letter?" she continues,
still smiling, "and then give it to me to send
to the post? It was dictated by Louis, and
written by me, and it will be quite complete
if you will put your name at the end
of it."

"I suppose I may read it?"

She nods, and Lomaque reads these lines:—

"CITIZEN,—I beg respectfully to apprise you that
the commission you entrusted to me at Paris has been
performed.

"I have also to beg that you will accept my resignation
of the place I hold in your counting-house.
The kindness shown me by you and your father
emboldens me to hope that you will learn with pleasure
the motive of my withdrawal. Two friends of mine
who consider that they are under some obligations to
me, are anxious that I should pass the rest of my days
in the quiet and protection of their home. Troubles
of former years have knit us together as closely as if
we were all three members of one family. I need the
repose of a happy fireside as much as any man, after
the life I have led; and my friends assure me so
earnestly that their whole hearts are set on establishing
the old man's easy chair by their hearth, that I cannot
summon resolution enough to turn my back on them
and their offer.

"Accept then, I beg of you, the resignation which
this letter contains, and with it the assurance of my
sincere gratitude and respect.

"To Citizen Clairfait, Silk Mercer,
Chalons-sur-Marne."

After reading those lines, Lomaque turned
round to Trudaine and attempted to speak;
but the words would not come at command.
He looked up at Rose, and tried to smile;
but his lip only trembled. She dipped the
pen in the ink, and placed it in his hand. He
bent his head down quickly over the paper,
so that she could not see his face; but still
he did not write his name. She put her hand
caressingly on his shoulder, and whispered to
him:—

"Come, come, humour 'Sister Rose.' She
must have her own way now she is back
again at home."

He did not answer—his head sank lower
—he hesitated for an instant—then signed
his name in faint, trembling characters at the
end of the letter.

She drew it away from him gently. A few
tear-drops lay on the paper. As she dried
them with her handkerchief she looked at her
brother.

"They are the last he shall ever shed,
Louis, you and I will take care of that!"

BABY BEATRICE.

            WHO brought baby Beatrice?
Out of the cold, out of the rain,
Out of the March-gust wet and hollow,
Twittering faint like a nestling swallow;
Ruffled and scared by the mad storm's kiss,
She came and tapp'd at the window-pane;
Down from God's garden the rough wind brought her,
           With silken wings aching,
           And timid heart quaking.
So gladly we open'd our arms and caught her,
And the wild bird changed to a tiny daughter?

           Who found baby Beatrice?
Under the briars and grass-tufts wet,
Under the larch-cones pink and pouting,
Half pursed up with a shy misdoubting
Whether 'twere wiser to cry or kiss,
She sate, like a sweet March violet.
Down from God's chaplet an angel brought her,
           With dewy eyes gleaming,
           And leafy heart dreaming.
So softly we parted the boughs, and sought her,
And the hedge-flower changed to a tiny daughter.