of this unfortunate coincidence; and the sword of the son is unstained by the father’s blood.”
“To prove which fact,” exclaimed a hollow and almost inarticulate voice from amidst the crowd in the body of the court, “there are the fingers which I cut off under the door of my room.” And as Adolphe ceased speaking, an officer of the court laid them upon the desk of the President.
Having silently examined them, an expression of astonishment was visible upon the countenance of the learned judge, who handed them to the procureur, by whom they were in turn transferred to the jury-box. It was at once perceived that the severed fingers thus produced in evidence had belonged to the left hand, while M. de Rosval was mutilated in the right!
Three days subsequently Adolphe had ceased to live. Mortification had supervened upon the frightful wound which he had inflicted upon himself in order to save the life of his father, and to preserve the honour of his family.
The young soldier’s career was over; his dream of fame had gone down with him to the grave. He met Marie once more: they had been self sacrificed in a common cause. Each appreciated the devotion of the other—each felt that thenceforward they had done with the world, and the world with them. Adolphe de Rosval lies in the cemetery of his native town; and Marie Delfour, after performing a penance of many years as a Sister of Charity, has found a grave in one of the West Indian Islands.
THE MONTHS.
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Of all the months in the year, June seems to me the richest in natural pleasures. The only draw-back is its being, at its close, the turning-point from the advancing to the receding year. We seem to have had so little of the opening and ripening of Nature,—the trees have so lately become green,—plants and animals are still so young, that it is very soon to be turning towards the declining seasons: yet we shall be making hay this month, in prospect of winter; and the days will be shortening before the end of it. Well, we must enjoy to the utmost the fruition in June of the first three months. In my family, we always do. We are out of doors more than in any other month,—the mornings and nights are so dry and balmy, and the mid-day still so fresh,—in the woods and by the water-side, if the fields are somewhat too sultry.
At the beginning, we look for the sheep washing; and we are always impatient for it, for the poor sheep’s sake,—they are apt to be so troubled with the fly. In our neighbourhood the flocks are not so large but that they can be watched, and rescued in time. We seldom or never see the frightful spectacle of a sheep being driven wild by the misery, and breaking away beyond reach of help, to lie down at last, and struggle away its life in writhings on the ground, while being