utter her thanks for all his goodness to her;
but her voice choked, and she burst into
tears.

"There, there, my child, do not agitate
yourself. You know we look on you as our
daughter—we love you."

And tears dropped upon the golden curls as
he kissed them. Poor Madame Raymond
sobbed audibly, as she held Agnes in her
arms, and would not let her go. Achille stood
by, looking on.

"Why do you weep?" he asked, gently;
"are you afraid that I shall hurt your friend?
You need not fear,—she is my one blessing.
I will make her great—I will!"

He seemed to recollect himself and
stopped, drawing himself up haughtily.
Agnes disengaged herself gently from the
embrace of Madame Raymond, and Achille
attended them courteously to their coach.

There was a dangerous glare in his eyes
when he came back. "Now Agnes, those
people are gone. They shall never come
back. If they had stayed a moment longer
I would have killed them!"

After that evening, the Raymonds did not
see Agnes for many months. Whatever were
the secrets of her home, no eye saw them; she
struggled with her lot alone. She attended
her pupils regularly, and none of them saw
any signs of weakness or anxiety. Her face
was stern and grave; but her duties were
punctually fulfilled, and no plea of illness
or complaint, of any kind, escaped her.
It was understood that her husband was
an invalid, and that she did not go into
company—that was all the world knew of her
affairs.

The old servant died, and her place was
never filled up. Agnes went to market and
managed all her household affairs before she
went to her pupils. Her husband was
seen sometimes working in the garden or
sitting—if the weather was warm—in the
sunny arbour, shaded with climbing plants;
but, he never left the house except with his
wife.

At the end of three years, the hope
to which Agnes had clung with such
passionate steadfastness was fulfilled. Her
husband entirely recovered his reason;
but, in this hope realised there was
mixed a great despair. With recovered
sanity came the consciousness of all that his
wife had done for him, and he had not
breadth of magnanimity to accept it. It may
be that the habits of rule and self-reliance
which had been forced upon her by her
position did not exactly suit the changed
position of things—people must brave the
defects of their qualities. This trial was the
hardest she had endured; but she hid suffering
bravely. Her husband respected her—
honoured her—was always gentle and
courteous—did everything except love her;
but she loved him, and it is more blessed to
give than to receive. It is the love we give
to others, not the love they give us, that fills
our heart.

Six years after marriage Achille
Tremordyn died. He expressed eloquently and
even tenderly his sense of all he owed to his
wife, and his high opinion of her many
virtues, and regretted all she had suffered for
him. It was not the farewell that a woman
and a wife would wish for; but she loved
him, and did not cavil at his words.

After his death she went to live near the
Raymonds. She still continued to teach,
though no longer from necessity; but,
after she had somewhat recovered from
the blankness which had fallen on her life,
she devoted herself to finding out friendless
young girls, and providing them with homes
and the means of gaining a living. For this
purpose she worked, and to it she devoted
all her earnings: recollecting the aunt who
had adopted her when she arrived in Paris,
and found herself abandoned. The good
Raymonds left her a fortune, with which she
built a house, and was the mother in it; and
many were the daughters who had cause to
bless her. She lived to an advanced age, and
died quite recently.

NEXT WEEK.

I WILL begin next week. I am quite
resolved upon it. Whatever inducements to
further delay may offer themselves, I will
not listen to them. No. If I am alive and
in good health, let what will happen, I have
fully made my mind up that I will begin that
five-act comedy next week.

Such is my fixed determination. I
have the story of my comedy all settled in
my mind. I have, and have had for some
years, the characters and incidents, even to
the minutest details, clearly arranged; all
that is wanting is for me to sit down and,
with what powers of language I possess, to
put my work on paper. I know that I have
a ready market for it when completed, and
so, once for all, I am resolved to set to work
in earnest at it—next week.

Why shouldn't I? For years I have been
panting after literary fame, and have felt
sure my true vocation is dramatic authorship.
Here is an opportunity too long
neglected, which, if now seized upon, may
(should I not say must?) accomplish all my
wishes. I know my comedy will be a great
success. I have few rivals to contend against
now that original works of standard merit
are so very rare. In fact all leads me to
believe that I may, if I choose, at once attain
a very high rank amongst living dramatists,
Why should I then delay my triumph?
Why, indeed! I will begin next week.

And now, with every possible encouragement
to do so, with nothing upon earth to
dissuade me from it, I have no doubt the
reader fully believes I mean to keep my
resolution. And so I do, I pledge my word,