of trial and of care to one of comfort and of plenty, in its modest way. You enabled me to aid my father in his years of want, disease, and old age; and to lay my poor pious mother in an honoured grave. To you the retirement of our little house at Passy—with its tiny garden where the sweet birds sang, and where the violets grew, and the sun came, it seemed to me, earlier and lingered later than in Paris streets—might have seemed but poverty. To me it was a fairy palace.
“I remember now the paper on the walls of our little salon, which gave its windows to our garden; our little bed-room, fitted in the English style; our kitchen, where our servant—grave, honest, pious and Norman— sat and told her beads, and wondered at our love—which rejoiced her heart, and seemed to her, as she said, like some sweet fairy tale, which she read all day and dreamt of in the night.
“ I remember, too, almost every word you said: your noble sentiments, your generous disregard of self, your every action; not one angry word, not one clouded look in all those days of love; not one expression of being tired or wearied of my fond love;—not one sentence but that which an English gentleman might use to a lady far above him! Can you wonder that I loved you?
“You were of that generous people which —when at war with my country, and suffering grievous wrong from her—received my father, and thousands like him, and aided him in all his struggles, and gave him life and hope.
“And I, a girl, had an hereditary love for our noble enemies, and yet our friends, the English. I loved their language, their stately poems, and their calm yet warm manners. In you I found my ideal—no slave of passion, yet so full of life and love; no empty braggart, but so strong in action; no dreamer, yet so generous in thought. Oh, my Philip, you were my all, and you were worthy—aye, in spite of untruth, wrong, and fate.”
Here the poor lady paused awhile, and the doctor gave her some more wine and water.
“ Let her speak,” he said, softly—and his two bright, hard, and scientific brown eyes were brighter for the moisture that was in them. “ Let her speak as long as she will. This has been long upon her poor heart: it will do her good to say her say, poor darling.”
Winnifred had crept nearer to the sufferer, and had caught one hand, and fondled it and kissed it. In the picture of the father she recognized the traits of her own Philip;and had not Eugenie been full of sorrow and ill-health, which was quite a sufficient reason to attract this young lady’s love, she would have loved her for the sad sweet voice and the full-hearted memory of her own young love.
The good little nurse, looking up with, saintly eyes from under the cold shade of; her white cortiet, told her beads with fervour, and, it may be, thanked God that she . had escaped this trial and this sorrow caused by human passions. Was she right? I hardly know. Is the soldier better who has not 1 joined the fight? It may be so; but surely the thankfulness which arises from past trial and trouble is better than that which boasts an isolated safety.
The same sweet smile again flickered upon the thin, pale features, as if some pleasant t memory had lit up a lantern which had long been dark.
“Do you remember, Philip,” she said, “ how we wandered in the Louvre and in Versailles, and how you made each picture, memorable by describing it to me, telling me of the story of my country, and never using one hard word against us; pointing out how we had fought at Fontenoy and Ivry, your face glowing with admiration for the gallant deeds of knights, or your eyes dimming with moisture as you recounted some heroic deed which led to death?
“ Sooner or later all paths lead to death, my Philip! The world wreck so much of is death’s antechamber; and long have I waited in it. I am now near the door, and would bid you good-bye.”
The face was more solemn, but still hopeful and joyous, as she said these words,Then the tone changed.
“ How often have I since stood in those pleasant palaces, and recalled those words ! Surely, if men knew the love that women bear them, they would never use one harsh ! phrase towards them. The memory has been a pleasant memory, and has kept me alive during a long trial.
“And, alas! what a price we mortals pay for love, for comfort, and for joy! Thirty years!—for thirty years, and the light of my life gone out, leaving me half dead and darkling.
“ The blow was too severe for me to attempt to defend myself, or to recover from
