"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!"

"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.

"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."

"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 guests so convivial and joyous.

were

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

adversity and loneliness, to seek that consolation which is found only in the exercise of true religion; it was with true piety, then, that she attended to the last wishes of the dying widow.

The good old woman had understood her without fearing that disdain for her cherished plant which she might have met with from many people; she had felt that she could confide the precious remembrance of her son to the veneration and respect in which Marguerite held all that was sacred.

The myrtle plant accordingly was placed in the window of the newly-married couple; and soon, by degrees, many other flowers, which Henri brought from the Jardin des Plantes, were grouped around it; and now Marguerite's hanging garden was complete; the warbling of the goldfinch, the perfume and vivid colours of the roses, the violets, the mignionette, the jessamine, and the heliotrope, seemed to pay their court to the modest myrtle, which had never before seen itself in such brilliant company; and the bright and charming countenance of the happy young bride often came to complete a picture glowing with freshness, redolent with perfume.

Marguerite loved her husband with all the strength of a chaste and first love. It was a touching sight to behold these two young people, so laborious, so happy, and so simple in their tastes. Early every morning Henri went to his work, and Marguerite and her goldfinch again resumed their former joyous and careless life. If in marrying she had given up her liberty, she found in the affection of her husband an ample recompense. Nothing in her happiness had changed, and her joyous song rivalled that of the bird, except when her eyes, resting on the myrtle, ever recalled to her memory the kind old widow, whose loss she still wept.

Marguerite dearly loved flowers; and she was not content with the little garden wherein bloomed the myrtle; she had another, which she often visited, it was the widow's grave surrounded by a wooden fence. It was not difficult to keep in order, and yet Marguerite visited it often, to plant there some new flower, watered by a tear and accompanied by a prayer.

At night, when Henri returned, the young couple indulged in the social chat and the chaste caresses of a mutual love, which is the source of all joy, the sweetest consolation for the bitters of life.

To this happiness, however, great as it was, there was still one thing wanting, and this Marguerite prayed for with all the fervour of her soul. Those prayers were heard, and she would soon become a mother! What joy, what dreams, what projects, filled their happy minds after the cares of the day! They already, in imagination, beheld the unborn one. With what delight Marguerite began to make the little dresses, and embroider the tiny caps, for the young stranger, on whom would be showered the affection overflowing the heart of the young mother.

At last the day so impatiently expected arrived, and Marguerite gave to the world a child, who received the name of Paul.

It would be impossible to detail the exclusive care with which Marguerite surrounded her child; her little Paul was her life-for him the goldfinch, the flowers, all were neglected; even the tomb of the poor widow was often forgotten, and the high grass which grew there seemed to announce to the stranger that neglect or consolation had succeeded to remembrance and regret.

Yet Marguerite had not forgotten her adopted mother. No! but to have gone an instant as usual to that sad spot, she must have left her little Paul, and that instant would have seemed a day of anguish to that young mother. To separate from her child when night and day her eyes never left it, when it was hushed to sleep on her bosom, and she watched its waking to cover with kisses its little hands, its golden hair; to receive its first smile, its first caress, or to dissipate those first pains of childhood which none can understand but a mother. Nor would Marguerite have consented that any besides herself should have taught her child one step or one word.

The happiness of the young couple lasted thus for two years, without care, without troubles; Fortune became jealous.

After some hard work, Henri fell dangerously ill, and the doctor despaired of his life, but happily he was spared. It had been a long⚫ illness, and while it lasted, Henri not having been able to work, his earnings had been stopped; and what with the doctor's visits and the medicine, all their little savings had been spent. This illness was, then, sufficient to destroy a happiness worthy of being envied, and to plunge into the most frightful misery a family who had yet known of life only the delights and felicity.

One never knows by what fatality one misfortune always brings another. Poor little Paul! he also was attacked with a malignant fever. On the first symptoms of the malady, the poor mother thought that she was going to lose her child. She battled with the despair which wrung her soul, and felt that she became more necessary than ever to two beings so equally dear to her, and still found a gleam of hope in her piety and resignation. There are hearts which, although usually timid and weak, assume, on the appearance of misfortune, the courage and energy of a martyr.

The doctor who had attended Henry, and who was again called in for the child, was a good and charitable man. He felt that the mission of medicine was a holy one, and generously left a rich patient to bring some relief to the anguish of a family who could repay him only with their gratitude.

When he beheld the new proof to which the sainted mother had to submit, when he thought that the illness of that child might perhaps kill her, a tear started to his eyes, and the worthy man prayed in his heart that he might be the means of sparing him to his mother. But, alas! the child's fever was one of those maladies for which medicine possesses not the secret, and which generally terminates in a favourable or a fatal crisis, for which it is impossible to be prepared. While the good doctor, as he listened to the quick breathing of the