THE MINIATURE.
By L. E. L.
"'No, leave it open to-night, Charles.'
"'But the damp air, dear mother!'
"'Only revives me!'
"The youth left the lattice, and, for a moment, buried his face in his hands behind the curtains of the bed. 'Charles, dear,' said his mother, and again he resumed his station at her side. It was a small low room, whose whitewashed walls and small grate—there was a fire there, though it was July—spoke the extreme of poverty; yet were there some slight marks of that refined taste which lingers after all that once cherished it is gone. On the little table, near the bed, stood a glass filled with flowers; and a box of mignionette in the window touched every breath of air that entered with sweetness. The dim light threw a shadow over the meanness of the place, and softness and quietness hallowed the agony of the hour; for Charles Seymour was looking for the last time on the face of the mother be had idolized—his young, his beautiful mother, whose small exquisite features, and dark length of hair, might rather have suited a lovely sister dying beneath her first sorrow, than one to whom many a year of grief and care would have made the grave seem a hope and a home, but for those she left behind. By her side, in the deep sleep of infancy, healthy, and coloured like the rose, was a child of four years old. 'God help thee, my poor Lolotte!' and the anxiety of a mother's love overcame the quiet of that calm which almost ever precedes the last struggle. 'Alas, Charles! a sorrowful and anxious heritage is yours!'
"'A sacred one, mother !' and, in his heart, he vowed to be father and mother to the orphan child; and thrice tenderly did the cold hand he held press his, as he kissed the little creature so blessed in its unconsciousness.
"Deeper and deeper fell the shadows, and deeper and deeper the silence, when the few clouds that had gathered, gradually broke away, and the room was filled with the clear moonlight. Suddenly there came the sound of martial music—the tramp of measured steps. Mrs Seymour started unaided from her pillow. 'It is the march of your father's regiment—they played it that last morning—for pity's sake, don't let them play it now!'
