all around her, fancying she understood the allusion contained in Marie's last words, continued, "They say there is contagion in such events. Who knows how soon you may come to me with a like tale to that I have brought you to-night? You shake your head, rather sorrowfully too. How can a certain person who shall be nameless, if he has eyes, taste, heart, have been much in your society and not return your affection? Nay Marie dear! Don't make me think I've been indiscreet!"for Marie had started as one might start who is suddenly and sharply struck by an unseen hand,-" But when last we met in London, I formed a belief that you-you have a more than friendly regard for Mr. Heartly, while he is insensible to your merits."

"Mr. Heartly!" Marie cried, springing up, "were you thinking of him?”

"Yes. Was I mistaken?”

"Never more so! How could you imagine anything so-? But I now find that I was equally in error about you. I dare say you'll laugh when I tell you I imagined your affections were fixed upon Mr. Cotherstone."

"Marie! Marie! your notion was little else than an insult to my judgment and my heart. I can hardly forgive you the aspersion. Mr. Cotherstone! Ha! ha! ha! But as to yourself, if not Mr. Heartly on whom is it you have fixed your thoughts? For I know there is somebody. Ah! well, if you are not disposed for confidence at this particular moment, I must await your own time."

"Indeed, Juliana, whenever there is anything to be told of the-the sort you allude to, I promise you shall be the first to hear it."

"With that promise I must rest contented, and now good night." Saying which, Juliana rose and kissed Marie somewhat less tenderly than was her wont. She felt that a return was due to her own expansiveness, and that no return of this sort had been made. There was, she thought, to say the least, a little mystery under all this, and between friends such as they were, no mystery little or great should be allowed to exist. But, with the hope that time would clear it up, she dismissed the subject from her thoughts.

It was otherwise destined, and we shall find that out of this

little mystery came complications fatal to the happiness of more than one person in whom we are interested.

AREBELLS, they are your flowers, my lady love,
And so, I send these blossoms unto you.
Spotless as are the flowers that bloom above,

Holy and meek like her I send them to.

Would I could lay them in your slender hand,
And hear you thank me in that gentle tone,
Tender as music in some sunny land,

Music that has a witch'ry all its own.

Fortune still wills it, we must dwell apart,

But lay these white flowers on thy whiter breast, To listen to the throbbing of thy heart,

For 'tis the music they will love the best.

Then each will answer from its silver bell,
Will sing a song so tender and so true,
And all the story that each song will tell,
Is but the story of my love for you.

N. C.

N

PIERREFONDS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "KHISMET," &c.

OBODY seems to know anything of Pierrefonds or Pierrefonds les Bains beyond the mere fact of its existence, and yet it is one of the most charming and attractive little places possible!

The physical characteristics of a locality generally seem to contain a sort of forecast of its history and ultimate destiny, so it is evident that Pierrefonds must have been originally intended for a sanatorium, for it is sheltered on all sides by the stately and magnificent trees of the forest of Compiégne; it lies on the banks of a silvery lake, whose waters cool the air even in midsummer, and it has two of those mineral wells, a sulphur and an iron one, which are said by an old writer. to be "the most wonderful and powerful remedies spontaneously prepared by nature for the benefit of man." But in addition to these advantages, Pierrefonds can boast of an atmosphere which could only be found in a land of vineyards and sunny skies; and there are days there when the air is so very clear and sparkling and everything above and around looks so fair, and sweet, and bright, and beautiful, that each separate sense seems a minister of enjoyment, abstractions appear to become sensuous, and you almost feel as if you could see into the very heart of things, and hear the voice of nature as she chants her low, soft hymn of praise to the Creator. Besides, although this favoured spot is encircled by hills, they are not in any part of sufficient altitude to shut out or obscure the light. On the contrary, it might be affirmed of its people, as Pliny said of the inhabitants of Rhodes, that they have never lived a single day without seeing the sun. And as we know that each cloud which dims the brightness of the sky retards the vital activity of the plants on which its shadow falls, that fruit, flowers, and leaves are alike the air-woven

children of light, and that without it the children of men become sickly and stunted, the importance of an abundant supply cannot be overestimated. A sojourn at Pierrefonds therefore is likely to be beneficial to both body and mind; for while its waters cure the diseases of the former, the purity and elasticity of its atmosphere exercise a most happy influence on the latter, and not only cause a surprising exhileration of spirits, but enable the lungs to perform their functions with such ease and freedom, that life, which is elsewhere a burden, at least to the consumptive and asthmatic, becomes there a positive pleasure.

But perhaps the greatest charm of this charming little place is, that it is still fresh and unhackneyed, and that the trail of that ubiquitous animal, the British tourist, is not yet over it. Indeed on reading the list of its visitors for the season, which begins in May and ends in October, I found that it contained but one British name, videlicit "Mr, Black, of London," and neither the proprietors nor the servants of the hotel could speak a word of English. It is, however, so much frequented by members of the French nobility from Paris and other parts of France that one hears the very best French spoken there.

You can get from London to Pierrefonds in twelve hours if you like; but it is better to linger for a while at Compiégne, to which some historic interest attaches from the fact that it was there that Joan of Arc was taken by the English, and because the place is still redolent of her, Hotels, &c., being called by her name, and the spot where she was captured being still regarded by the people as hallowed ground. Compiégne is built on the Oise, which is there spanned by a fine bridge with three arches, erected by Louis XV. It has been for centuries the favourite residence of Kings of France, who were devoted to sport, on account of its contiguity to the forest; but apparently that is all that it had to recommend it, as it is a sleepy, superannuated looking little town, not prettily situated, and without any fine buildings except the Hotel de Ville and the Palace. The latter, however, is interesting because you see there the private apartments of the late Imperial family; the boudoir of the Princess Mathilde, which had formerly the honour of being occupied by Marie Antoinette; the Prince Imperial's bedroom, that of his mother with its large gilt bed, and her dressing

room, containing a bureau which is covered with fine Wedge. wood plaques; the music room with its tapestried walls and buffets of Japanese and Chinese make; the family reception room in which the Imperial sporting parties used to meet on hunting days; the Emperor's bedroom with its sofa bed and invariable and inevitable bust of Napoleon the Great in marble; and, lastly, his library, from which it is said that the only book abstracted by the Germans was a copy of Cæsar, with pencil marks made by himself.

The rail from Paris to Compiegne takes you through a part of the country which, though sufficiently well timbered, is flat and featureless, the view being bounded by low-lying hills which rise on both sides like walls, without any diversity or beauty of outline whatever. But from Compiegne to the Baths the road is delightful and has all the charm of novelty, being cut right through the forest on the confines of which, the pretty village of Pierrefond lies.

This little village-it would seem absurd to call it by any more pretentious name, contains 1800 inhabitants and four hotels, the best being the Hotel des Bains, which stands well back in its own grounds, and with its appurtenances of the Bath House and mineral wells, &c., &c., presents many attractions. There is a small island on the lake which is connected with the Hotel grounds by means of a bridge, and which is so thickly wooded with acacias and other trees that they close in round it so as to form it into a sort of colossal bower; and on a shining summer day it is really a pretty sight to see the bathers, after they have left the Bath House, sitting about in bright hued dresses under the shade of these by no means melancholy boughs, laughing and chatting and enjoying the sunny present without a thought of the future, as French people only can do. Taine says that the English get the most uses out of life, but his own countrymen and women extract the greatest amount of happiness and enjoyment from it; and perhaps he is right, as after all, that total absence of care and extreme lightheartedness must constitute a kind of happiness, and probably the best and highest kind of which they are capable. For though, of course, much of their uniform and extraordinary vivacity is due to the atmosphere they breathe and the climate they live in, a still greater portion of it seems