faith in the future, a little more confidence in your mother. For some months a new feeling has been taking possession of your heart-why not have told me of it? Why not have spoken to me as to a friend or companion? Perhaps you feared from me objections on the score of inequality of birth and fortune. Don't think that; all can be easily arranged."

"I don't understand you," replied Raoul.

"Forgive me, Raoul, but you understand me very well," answered the marchioness, the calmness of whose manner was rapidly forsaking her. “You know that I would speak of Susan Assandri: you love her, and she loves you. Can you deny it ?"

"No." 66 Well," ," resumed Madame d'Aurebonne, endeavouring to smile, “on similar occasions it is usual, when a young man of large fortune and noble birth falls in love with a young girl, his inferior in a social position—it is usual for him to request his parents to consent to his marrying her. We have now exchanged parts. It is I that ask you to place no obstacle between you and the happiness that awaits you, and to marry Susan."

A ray of joy and gratitude flashed from the eyes of Raoul, but, resuming his gloomy and resolute look, he replied

"Mother, it is impossible."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the marchioness, in a tone that ill concealed her feelings "why? Am I wrong in supposing that you love Susan ?"

"Since you fathom me so well," replied her son, with a frightful smile, “you must know with what ardour and devotion I adore her. You must also be aware that to be beloved by her and to give her my name would be the dearest wish of my heart, the greatest hope of my life."

"Then why this silence? Why conceal this wish? why not obtain this treasure?"

"Ah, you know," answered Raoul, in a tone of great bitterness-"you that understand me so well cannot but be aware of my reason."

"Why? Because you are certain of dying at the age of twenty-four, and of leading a life of misery until then?"

"Yes."

"But if you are deceived," continued the marchioness, the pallor of whose cheek betrayed some powerful emotion-"if it could be proved to you that all your anxiety was founded upon nothing-that the blood which flows in your veins is untainted by any hereditary disease—would you marry her?”

"Would I marry her!" replied Raoul, in a heart-rending accent of mingled love and despair. "Ask of the doomed whether they would follow the angel who suddenly showed them the path to heaven! Would I marry her! From the first day that I beheld her divine loveliness I have vainly struggled against the invincible feeling that has drawn me towards her. Although certain of dying at

a fixed time, and although this certainty is always presenting itself before me as my death-warrant, yet twenty times have I been at the point of falling at Susan's feet, and saying to her, with tears which might perhaps have solaced me, Will you marry me? My life will be but a short one-but when I am gone you will be rich, and you will bear a noble name; as the widow of Raoul d'Aurebonne you will ever be welcome in the gay and fashionable world. I only ask that you will

not quite forget me-that you will bestow on me a small place in your heart, so that your remembrance of me may neither lessen your happiness nor disturb your peace.' I might have said and done all this had I loved less, or had Susan been another woman. But with her I could not. I know her. I should carry her along with me in my murderous fate. Her loving and devoted heart would break by the same blow that struck me, and the same stone would mark the tomb of both."

Instead of replying, the marchioness knelt before her son.

"Good God! what are you doing?" exclaimed Raoul.

In a tone of great energy, and which seemed the result of great grief, Madame d'Aurebonne replied—

"I kneel to you, Raoul, because I am about to make a revelation which will at once alter your determination. I ought to have made this revelation to you before, and spared you all the suffering you have endured. If, Raoul, there does not exist between you and Susan any other obstacle than that of the hereditary disease which you suppose has already numbered your days, you may marry Susan without fear. You are neither my child, nor that of the Marquis d'Aurebonne !"

แ "What do you say?" exclaimed Raoul, so thunderstruck that he scarcely understood all his mother had uttered.

"You were bequeathed to me by a sister who died in giving you birth. The marquis, my husband, loved you as his child, and left you all his wealth, together with the landed property in right of which you bear his name and title. No woman's heart ever beat more devotedly for the child of her bosom than mine for you. You soon learned to lisp the name of mother, and I never had courage to tell you that I had no claim to the title. Forgive me, Raoul-forgive me this deception !"

But Raoul no longer listened. As the meaning of his mother's words clearly developed itself to his mind, a feverish joy brightened his features. By a sign he told his mother to say nothing further, and, giving one bound to the window, he flung it open.

"Oh!" exclaimed he, "now, for the first time in my life, I see, I feel, I breathe, I live. This exístence, which I thought was receding from me, has returned with vigour and delight. The air, which used to stifle me, now brings in its breath the sweetest perfume of flowers. I can scarcely recognise either sky, trees, hills, land, or sea. All hitherto has appeared to me through a dark veil—the veil has fallen off, and Nature looks beautiful. I used to admire her with a feeling of bitterness, as if her loveliness were an insult to my sorrow. I can now find my rank amongst created beings. I am no longer marked with a curse, outlawed from my fellowmen, and, as it were, dying each day. I am young, I am strong, I am happy. Mother, I feel grateful for what you have told me."

Madame d'Aurebonne raised herself from her knees, and, with a tottering step, advanced towards the window. She threw one arm around her son, as if better to participate in his intoxicating delight-with the other she pointed to the bottom of the garden, where a large tree half-concealed the doctor and his daughter. "Will you call to them ?" said Raoul, in that coaxing tone so graceful in the young and happy.

The marchioness beckoned to them. They approached, and in a few instants they were in the room.

"Doctor," said Madame d'Aurebonne, with great dignity, "I have the honour to request the hand of your daughter for the Marquis d'Aurebonne."

And the marchioness fell fainting on the floor.

VI.

Happiness is not fruitful in events, and we should have little left to say had we only to describe Raoul's and Susan's felicity.

After the terrible scene which saved her son, the marchioness sank into that state of nervous exhaustion which usually succeeds any painful crisis in one's life, and she never felt herself again equal to mix in the world, or to quit the quiet seclusion of her present abode.

Madame d'Aurebonne, therefore, built near the sea, and a few yards from the ruins of Almanare, a house something similar to Dr. Assandri's, but sufficiently spacious to admit of her son and his wife living with her. She soon established herself in it, and resisted her children's constant entreaties to accompany them in their journeys, whether to Paris or elsewhere. They invariably wintered in Paris, partaking in its gaieties until the middle of spring. Susan greatly regretted this arrangement of affairs. She would infinitely have preferred remaining among those smiling hills where she had left her father, and where she had grown, loved, suffered, and, in one moment, had passed from the depths of misery to an almost intoxicating bliss.

But, as Raoul liked a visit to the gay capital every year, Susan felt that this was a very potent reason for her to like it too. In returning, as it were, to life, the Marquis d'Aurebonne was anxious to redeem the past-to make amends for former inaction (which had only been the result of his gloomy forebodings) by an eager anxiety to employ his talents, and take possession of that rank in society which his name, his wealth, and his distinguished advantages, both of mind and person, entitled him.

The marchioness's delight at first knew no bounds. For Raoul and Susan, after their travels, would return to Hyères with renewed pleasure, to celebrate, as it were, the anniversary of some great festival.

Five years soon passed away. The period which Madame d'Aurebonne and her son had formerly so dreaded had glided by without any other effect than in bringing to Raoul greater health and strength, and in adding to the family group two lovely children.

Madame d'Aurebonne experienced all the delight of which a grandmamma is capable; but this feeling, when compared to maternal love, is as a lovely autumnal evening to summer's ardent heat. After so many trials, it seemed only fair that the remainder of the marchioness's life should be spent in happy tranquillity. But, about this time, Dr. Assandri, who saw her every day, and who entertained for her character a warm admiration, discovered that she was much changed, and that she seemed sinking.

It struck the doctor that perhaps Madame d'Aurebonne felt Raoul's long absences —that she rendered herself ill by endeavouring to conceal such feelings. But what was his surprise when, on narrowly watching her, he perceived that, at Raoul's return, she looked worse! He, therefore, now gave his attention to Raoul; and his astonishment became boundless when he perceived, by some slight but unmistakeable indications, that the marquis's attachment for his mother was no longer that of other days.

After the marchioness's revelation, Raoul had felt such an infinity of bliss that his heart had no room for any other feeling. To live, marry Susan, fling far from him the crushing burthen which had bowed him to the earth for so many years, was all he saw; he thought of nothing more. But, as time advanced, and his happiness was no longer a novelty, he accused his supposed mother of hard-hearted cruelty in never having earlier relieved him of his agonising misery. From these feelings he rushed as from the border of a precipice, and when he remembered her unparalleled devotion to him he endeavoured to be more than ever devoted to her. The feeling, however, would return, and, insensibly, he became accustomed to it. He resolved that she, at least, should never know what was passing in his heart. But nothing can be concealed from a mother; it is easier to kill than to deceive her.

The marchioness, as we have said, read her son's mind as if it had been an open book. Day after day, and hour after hour, she perceived his internal struggle, his gradual change, although he carefully endeavoured to conceal it. We despair of describing all she suffered. Her present grief inflicted even greater sufferings than those she had endured when she trembled for Raoul's life. The first impulse of her ardent nature was to burst through the trammels imposed by her selfsacrifice, and to recover her son's love. But Raoul-would he believe her? And, if he did, he would only return to all his former terror, which had well-nigh killed him. Madame d'Aurebonne took counsel of her own heart, and bore it all in patience. When she felt that she must shortly die she became resigned to her fate. With this assurance a ray of joy darted through her heart.

She said to herself, all falsehood, whatever may be its motive or excuse, is wrong; that hers deserved chastisement; and, yielding herself to the Divine will, thanked God for having chosen her as an expiation, and, as a last blessing, prayed that she alone might be taken!

But time, as well as grief, was needed to undermine Madame d'Aurebonne's naturally strong constitution. Many years glided on without either Susan or Raoul remarking any alteration in the marchioness's health, so completely absorbed were they in their own happiness. Divine superiority of maternal love over every other affection! Raoul had never succeeded in hiding from his mother one thought or feeling, though scarcely perceptible to himself; yet she kept from her son the secret of that suffering which was hastening her to the tomb.

At length, after two or three years more had passed quietly by, one autumn, when Raoul and his wife landed, as they generally did after their travels, opposite the two white houses belonging to the marchioness and the doctor, they perceived the latter standing alone on the shore. The doctor seemed very downcast, and met Raoul with an angry look.

"What is the matter ?" anxiously inquired Raoul.

"Your mother is ill-that is the matter," answered Dr. Assandri, abruptly.

At this instant, in Raoul's heart, every feeling but love and veneration for his mother vanished. A few minutes afterwards, when kneeling by his mother's bedside (for she was no longer able to rise), and he could discern the ravages illness had made on her once fine features, he suddenly and violently burst into tears, and the despair so plainly depicted on his countenance told the marchioness she had recovered her child, and she felt herself both comforted and pardoned.

Perhaps, if we could only have dived into the secrets of her heart, we might

have read that this moment, and the days that succeeded it, were the sweetest in her life of trial; and we should have seen that, by some happy fancy, Madame d'Aurebonne felt that her death would secure Raoul's life-that God, in accepting this sacrifice, was answering her tears and prayers.

For some weeks Madame d'Aurebonne lingered on. Her eyes were always gazing on her son; their expression was one of maternal love, illumined and purified with an angelic sweetness. She did all she could both to encourage and comfort him, and continually assured him that she had never felt so happy before. Carried away by his grief, Raoul would once or twice have confessed to his mother-as if it had been a crime-the feeling that he had now and then felt towards her. She was aware of it, and checked the avowal on his lips. Nothing happened to disturb these last days of calm and sorrow.

One lovely evening, at the latter end of October, Madame d'Aurebonne, without complaining of any increase of pain, begged to be taken near the window. The sky was cloudless; the setting sun shed its resplendent golden tint on the sea and surrounding country; a mild and perfumed breeze came gently into the The countenance of the poor invalid was celestial in its expression.

room.

The doctor signed to Raoul and Susan that the marchioness was about to quit them. The priest had just gone. The two children, with their little hands joined, were repeating the prayers their mother had taught them, and sobbing violently, because they saw others weeping.

At this moment, the marchioness, gathering all her little remaining strength, made a sign to Susan and Raoul to go to the further end of the room, and beckoned the doctor to come near.

"Is there nothing you would say to Raoul—a little later?" softly whispered the doctor.

"Doctor," inquired the marchioness, in a voice scarcely audible, "is there an age when a man whose father has died of consumption may feel himself secure from ever having that disease?"

Dr. Assandri reflected for an instant, and then replied—

"It may be determined with probability, but never with certainty." "Then there is nothing I wish said to Raoul"—and she fell back on her pillow. This was Madame d'Aurebonne's last sacrifice, and these the last words she uttered. For a few instants her lips moved, as if in prayer. She then turned her dying eyes on her son-who was weeping convulsively, with Susan's arms around him-and expired.

In the cemetery of Hyères-a simple inclosure, and one that appears to the passer-by to be but a group of cypress trees-there may be seen the Marchioness d'Aurebonne's tomb, bearing on it the usual inscription.

At the foot of the stone there may be also seen inscribed, in very legible, but irregular, characters

MARTYR AND SAINT."

Raoul knows not, and he never will know, that these three words have been added by Dr. Assandri. The doctor had guessed all.