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"I am now eighteen-I am a man-and I am determined that we shall not remain poor all our life, dear mother; I will become a soldier like my father, and seek on the battle-field the means of providing for your old age."

"No, dear child, you are all I have in the world to comfort me, and I would rather be poor for the rest of my life, and have you near me. What would become of me, if you were to leave me alone here?"

"But think, mother; you will soon be deprived of our small garden; as others have already; and as I know nothing but a little gardening, what would become of us? Far from being of use to you, I should be only an expense, while substitutes are well paid. I shall offer myself as one, and with the money I shall get, and the sale of our piece of land, you will be able to live comfortably during my absence. If any remains when I return, added to what I shall earn in the mean time, we may both be rich and happy for the rest of our lives." "But, unhappy boy," objected the mother, weeping, "if you should never return?"

"Oh, but that's impossible, because only cowards get killed, or those who forget that they have a good, dear mother."

It was in 1811; at this time a substitute fetched at least from four to five hundred pounds. The widow's son was a very fine young man, so he received for his services the above sum, which he proudly counted into his mother's apron; then, with the knapsack on his back, he bid farewell to his sorrowing parent, and folding her in his arms, said, with tears in his eyes,—

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Adieu, dearest mother! we shall soon meet again. Be happy, and think sometimes of me; above all, fear not; I shall not expose myself to too much danger for your sake; and if you do not hear from me, remember that it is because my regiment will be very far off. Take good care of yourself; you have money, do not spare it."

"That money," said the poor mother, sobbing, "you will find it untouched at your return. I would rather die of hunger than spend one farthing of that which is the price of my child!"

He departed, and the following year he shared the fate of the hundred thousand brave hearts buried beneath the snows of Russia. In losing her son, the poor widow had lost her all. Having sold her small garden, she went to live in a small garret, near the Jardin des Plantes. The vicinity of a garden was necessary to a woman like her, who had always been in the habit of living amid vegetation, and now her only happiness consisted in coming every day to sit under the shade of the trees near the flower-beds. She loved to see the gardeners at work, to watch them sowing the seeds, and trimming the plants. They sometimes chatted with her, and often reminded her of her lost son, which remembrance always brought sad tears into her

eyes.

In losing her son, the poor widow imagined she had lost all hope of affection. Heaven, however, willed it otherwise.

On the same floor she inhabited lived a young girl named Mar

guerite. She was laborious at her needle, and as busy as a bee; simple-hearted, gay, and frolicsome as the goldfinch she had tamed, and which was her only companion. She seemed to have assimilated her existence to that of the bird; for both rose before daybreak, sung together till night, and together partook of their repasts, at which the goldfinch often ate nearly as much as the frugal young girl.

Such near neighbours could not fail to become soon acquainted. The goodness of the one, and the sweet and lively disposition of the other, soon formed the first links of their intimacy, and the kind widow soon became a second mother to Marguerite, who returned this affection with the fondness and care of a daughter. If the poor widow, now old and feeble, found the five stories too much for her to ascend with her little marketing, -if she required a little nourishing broth made, or a friendly arm to lean on in her daily walk to the garden, Marguerite was always ready, always on the watch; silencing her own song and that of her favourite when the poor invalid wished to sleep; and frequently sacrificing her hours of work to the pleasure of leading the poor widow out, to be revived by the genial sun in May or September.

The invalid had been confined to her bed for some days, when, thanks to the care and attention of her kind little neighbour, the good widow recovered so far as to be enabled to resume her daily walks ; and they once more wandered along slowly in the sun, when the old woman thus apostrophised the young girl :

"Marguerite, my child, since you are an orphan, and have chosen to accept me as a second mother, I must now assume a mother's privilege, and begin by scolding you."

"And for what, good mother?" said the young girl, much astonished.

"Can you not guess what I mean?" said the widow. "Not in the least," said Marguerite.

"Think well, my child; when one has a fault, let it be ever so little, on one's conscience, remorse always brings it to one's memory."

"Oh, tell me quickly what it is! I should so regret causing you the least uneasiness; it must have been quite involuntary, I assure you; oh, let me, then, hasten to repair it."

"The other night, when I was in bed, thinking that I slept, you went into your own room."

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Yes, mother; but both doors were open, and I still watched

you."

"Did not some one come to see you that night? did not Henri return?"

At this question Marguerite blushed; she remembered that Henri had come in spite of the widow's advice to the contrary; and she added in some confusion:

"It is true; and I meant to speak to you about it; I will now tell you all, dear mother; and if you think me no longer worthy of your esteem, you will see that you have been much mistaken."

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Come, then, my child: I still love and esteem you; but I must know all."

"You know that my cousin Henri and I were brought up together in the country like brother and sister; and that when I came to Paris, he followed me, and was engaged as a gardener at the Jardin des Plantes. Oh, he is so steady, dear Henri, and then he loves me so much, and is so handsome!"

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Marguerite, Marguerite!" said the widow, shaking her head; your cousin may be very handsome, and you are very pretty; but I have told you before that is no reason why he should come here."

And in saying that Marguerite was pretty, the widow was in the right; but her beauty lay not in the strict regularity of her features, but in the softness of her eyes, in her ingenuous smile, in the varied expression of her joyous looks, in the grace of her rosy mouth and ivory skin; and the good widow, who knew the innocent and confiding character of the young girl, had done well in forbidding her to receive her cousin at home. There are flowers which fade at the slightest contact, and it takes but little sometimes to convert the crown of grace, purity, and poetry, adorning the forehead of a young maiden, into a crown of martyrdom and grief.

"But listen to me, dear mother," quickly replied Marguerite, pouting her pretty lip; "you have not heard what I have to say: when I tell you that Henry is steady, it is quite true; it is not because I say so, but his master, on this account, has increased his salary, and that is what he came to tell me the other night."

"But what has that to do with your having forbidden his visits?" "That is just what I want to tell you, mother. It is a long time since we have loved one another dearly, and when that is the case, why-one gets married."

Marguerite had rather hesitated finishing the above phrase, but she added:

"We were only waiting for this increase of salary to enable us to become man and wife: as soon as ever it takes place, we will marry; but you will lose nothing by it, good dear mother; on the contrary, Henri loves you almost as well as I do, so that instead of one child, you will have two. So you see that your little Marguerite allowed only her intended to come and see her, and that she you call your child is still worthy of your esteem and friendship. So tell me that

you still love me, and are no longer angry, dearest mother?" The widow's only answer was a kiss.

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"And then you will see how we shall get on," said Marguerite; as soon as we are settled you shall come and live with us; you are getting old, you have no society, and you require care; we two, Henri and I, we are young, we mean to work, and you know where there is enough for two there is enough for three; and, at least, if you are ill, we shall be able to give you all you want, and you shall not be abandoned here. Have you not been a mother to me, and do you suppose I could be happy if you were left here alone?-who would take you out for a walk then, dearest mother?"

"Good, kind Marguerite!" said the old woman, again kissing her gratefully; "I well know the goodness of your heart; I knew that when you married I should not be left here alone, after your having giving me the habit of loving and living with you. I should have died too surely of grief and despair. But I will show you that the poor widow is not ungrateful. I must do something for your happiness, and as you require a little money before your marriage can take place, I have saved up a small sum, which shall be employed for your wedding, all the expenses of which I shall take upon myself."

"No, dear mother, I cannot allow that; we, who have waited three years can well wait three months more. So keep your money; at your age one cannot earn more, and one may be always in want of it."

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At my age, Marguerite, one has not long to live; and I think I should die happier in thinking I had done something towards the happiness of so good and loving a child as yourself. Therefore I insist upon it; and you would not, I am sure, for the first time, disobey me. I shall now rest awhile on this bench; make haste, and let Henri know of this arrangement, and tell him we will talk it over to-night."

The young girl flew to her intended; and, that same night, all three met at the kind widow's, and the wedding-day was fixed on. They then indulged in a friendly chat; and many were the castles in the air built on this occasion-edifices which rise with magic quickness and beauty in the hearts of lovers.

Three weeks after, Marguerite and Henri were united. On that day the happy widow was in the best health and spirits; it seemed the joy of seeing Marguerite happy had restored her to health; and she had taken from the recesses of an old wardrobe a cap and gown which had not seen daylight for at least ten years, and had been worn on many a solemn occasion. They all met in her room, where a modest repast had been prepared, and to which had been invited a few relations and friends; and never before, undoubtedly, had the poor widow's humble apartment been the theatre of such pure and complete happiness-never was there a gayer dinner, never were guests so convivial and joyous.

But the momentary gleam of health in the poor widow soon gave place to a rapid decay; she wasted slowly from day to day, and but a few months had passed since the marriage of the young couple, when she began to think of another world. One morning she called the young people (whose care and affection for her had never ceased) to her bedside, and thus spoke to them:

"I am going to die, my dear children. Heaven will soon call me away to join my poor son; but before I go, I feel that there is still something left me to accomplish on earth. I would have wished Marguerite to have been rich, to have left both you and Henri happy ; since, by your angelic care and affection, you have prolonged a life which, but for your solicitude and friendship, would have been spent in loneliness and grief; but, alas! I have nothing-nothing but the conviction that Heaven, which is just, will one day reward you for so

much goodness. The little I have to leave is yours, but you will find one thing which I leave you as a wedding-gift-it is a pot of myrtle; of little value, it is true, to any but myself. I prized it highly. It was my poor son who planted it. Receive it, dear Marguerite, as a talisman; keep it for my sake; and when I am no more, if you are unhappy, if one of your children should be ill, then think of me; think of the grief I must have felt in losing my dear son. Should you

have a son, give him the name of Paul, which was that of mine. Receive my gift; God will reward you. I will watch you from above, and pray for your happiness."

On seeing that she would soon lose her second mother, Marguerite wept.

"Thanks, thanks! a thousand thanks, dearest mother," sobbed she; "any other than myself might perhaps slight the value of your kind present; and you do well to entrust to me the only thing which remains to you of your son; I shall value it as you have done, and that which you have kept for the sake of your child, so also will I keep it for your sake."

"Yes, dear Marguerite, once more, I say, it is what is most precious to me; and if ever this humble pot of myrtle brings to your mind the poor old widow, you will remember at least that I loved you as much as him I would have called your brother; and I shall have the consolation of leaving the only remembrance of my beloved son in the hands of one who will regret me enough to respect the last wishes of a dying creature."

Marguerite had thrown her arms round the old woman's neck, and said to her, while the tears streamed down her cheeks

"Dear mother, why speak of death? You will soon get well, and will live long yet; besides, you must live to see me happy, and also to love my Henri as much as you do your poor Marguerite; so be at rest. Your pot of myrtle shall be as sacred to me as my dear mother's wedding-ring."

The good woman had not been mistaken in her approaching end. Three days after the touching farewell she had taken of her adopted family, she slept the sleep of eternal peace, happy in leaving after her one remembrance, one hope, one regret.

Henri and his good little wife gave the affectionate old widow's remains a modest but respectable funeral; and although no pomp was there, the tears of regret which followed it were priceless and

sincere.

None but a really noble and pious heart can look upon the wishes of the dead as a sacred duty. Marguerite was simple, generous, and charitable; she understood, with infinite delicacy, all that according to the laws of morality and religion was right; she possessed in the highest degree that exquisite tact which is innate in women alone, and which makes them feel the nicest shades of a sentiment or a thought. Brought up by a piously angelic parent, and a prey from childhood, to the vicissitudes of human life, she had learnt, in the school of

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