foreign parts when he went home from the
choir, and showed him his sword and his gun
and taught him how he should use it if he
lived to be a man. Little Charles had a
sister who sung and taught him to sing his
part so well in the choir, that Father Mathurin
praised him above all other, and made
him lead the others. Poor Ange! He had
no brother, no sisters. He lived with Father
Mathurin and old Jeannette, who took no
thought of telling stories to amuse him, and
no one helped him with his lessons, so that he
was often in disgrace, though he tried to do
well, and loved Father Mathurin very much
and wished to please him.

This day, Ange thought more than ever on
all these things. Jeannette had been unusually
cross; and the lessons he had to learn:
seemed as if they would not stay properly in
his head. It had been a very difficult mass
that morning, and Ange felt that he was
singing wrong. He thought Father Mathurin's
eyes were fixed severely upon him all
the time, and the whole church seemed to be
filled with the discord of his little voice.

Accordingly, when Ange went with the
other boys to the evening service, his large
eyes were red with weeping, and there was
something very like despair gnawing at his
heart.

It was a very beautiful, sacred-looking
place, that old Cathedral, those high Gothic
arches of sad-coloured stone, now and then
tinged with beautiful colours from the sun's
rays through the windows of many-coloured
stained glass. And the old carved oak pulpit,
black with age; and the choir; and the very
high seats where Ange sat, all curiously
carved, and some with such strange hobgoblin-
looking figures, so unreal, and yet so life-
like, that they seemed almost to move in the
twilight; and Ange would have been dreadfully
frightened—only that he knew where
he was, and in whose service, and he felt that
no evil power could harm him so long as he
put his trust in his Lord and Master.

The sun was not set; its rays still came
through the stained glass, and rested first on
one head and then on another of the boys in
the choir; and last of all it came to Ange's
head, and then it went away altogether, and
the church grew darker, and the organ played
solemn and grand music, and the odour of
the incense still rested on the air. And the
church grew darker and darker, and lights
were lighted in different parts, but they
seemed to burn very dimly, and to make little
aureoles round themselves, and leave every
one else in darkness—the cathedral was too
vast for anything but the sun to light it;
and Father Mathurin mounted into the
pulpit, to preach. And Ange, wearied with
weeping and sorrow, felt a repose stealing
over his troubled little heart. And he tried
very hard to listen to what Father Mathurin
was saying, and to keep his eyes wide open
and fixed upon him; but he could not do it.
It seemed as though two leaden weights were
tied to his eyes; and then, when he did open
them, Father Mathurin seemed to be spinning
about, and his voice sounded more like the
buzzing of bees than Ange's native language.
The struggle lasted some time, and Ange
rubbed his eyes again and again; but it
was of no use, and at last the poor little
head fell upon his breast, and Ange fell fast
asleep.

Guillaume, who sat next Ange, was busy
whispering to the boy next him, how his
brother's regiment was ordered to Paris, and
so Jean would see the beautiful queen, and
perhaps be made a captain by her, for he was
a very handsome man, so the queen could
not fail to notice him, Guillaume thought; and
Guillaume was in such a hurry to run home
and talk to Jean about it, that he never
thought of Ange; and indeed if he had, he
would have thought that Ange was already
gone home, for the arms of the seat were so
large, and so much carved, and Ange had
sunk down so much since he had fallen asleep,
that he really did not look like a little boy at
all, but more like a heap of something left in
the choir that nobody felt inclined to take
any notice of.

And Father Mathurin's sermon was ended,
and the lights were all put out, and the
people left the church one by one, and then
the last step was heard echoing through the
lofty building; and then the sound of the
great key in the old lock, and the clink of
the other keys on the same bunch, as the
old verger locked the doors; and then a deep
silence—and little Ange was still asleep in
the choir.

Still sleeping, softly, peacefully, innocently,
as though he had been on the softest bed of
down,—a sleep that refreshed his weariness,
and made him lose all thought of trouble.
First, he slept in all unconsciousness, every
thought drowned in the world of sleep; then
came a beautiful vision before him—an angel
so pure and beautiful, there was a light of
glory around him, and, as he drew near to
Ange, he seemed to bring an atmosphere of
music with him; and Ange, though he knew
it was a spirit, felt no fear. And then Ange,
in his dream, fell upon his knees, and prayed
that Jeannette's heart might be softened
towards him; that he might have strength
to be good, and that there might be somebody
to love him like a mother. Then, by
the angel's side, faintly shadowed out, was
a pale, wan face, and frail, slender form,
beautiful, but sad, and in her arms, resting
its head upon her shoulder, lay a beautiful
child. To these two mist-like figures the
angel pointed, and Ange cried, clasping his
little hands together, still on his knees, and
with tears of hope and joy stealing down his
face,

"Oh, how I would love her, angel, is she
not my mother?"

And the figures faded away; and the angel