been dug upon all sides of him. Then, striking | claiming, in a voice at once tremulous with love his forehead with his hands, he cursed the day and with emotion; " you know well that God on which he had accepted this voluntary impri- never gave anyone else so good a wife, and that sonment, and demanded an account from God it is I who should ask pardon of you, Geneof the blows which he had showered on him! viève, for not having been always so good to But soon, returning to his pious faith and you as you deserved !" confidence in an all-wise and all-merciful Providence, he joined his hands, and prayed with tears for the safety of Geneviève. Towards the morning of the third day, he believed for a moment that his prayer had been heard and answered. The fever fell, and the sick woman returned to consciousness. But this change did not make her a partaker of either the hope or the joy of her husband. "Do not think that I shall get better, dear husband," said she, faintly, and with difficulty: the fever has gone, but all my strength has gone with it! That night when you went from me over the waters, when I heard from out of the middle of them the cry of Marie, something happened to me, I know not what, but it seemed that all the supports of life were broken. Now, too, I feel in a way which convinces me that all is finished." She could only speak a syllable at a time, so utter was her weakness. Mathieu combated her fears, but uselessly. He told her that the surgeon was reassured, and had declared all would now go well. In reply she opened, though with excessive difficulty, her closed eyes, and cast on him a look full of the tenderest sorrow. 66 No, no!" exclaimed the dying woman, with animation, "I never loved you half so much as you deserved to be loved, never did half my duty by you! and not to you only, but Marie, and Josephine, that little angel who had so few years' life to live! Think, Mathieu, how often and often I made her weep who is now beneath the earth! Ah! and the other people I have offended so much-and the God I have sinned against. How can I obtain mercy-how-;" but she fell back utterly exhausted, and could say no more. to speak again, and exclaimed, "It is impossible In a few moments, however, she forced her lips I can die thus, Mathieu; I must see apriest !" "Ah!" replied he, sorrowfully," my darling wife, my own dear Geneviève, how can I pro cure one?" "What!" she answered wildly, "will they not let you even save a soul? Ah! then I am condemned to die in this state! Oh God! why is it so? The most miserable sinner can avow his faults before he dies, and ask absolutionwhy must I alone be denied the knowledge?" She stopped suddenly, and seemed to be recalling something to her memory. "Ah! I remember," she continued shortly after; "have you not told me, Mathieu, that on board your ships, when some one is dying, and no priest is at hand, any Christian can re "God rules all things, Mathieu, and for the best," said she. "He knows that I should be happy to live with you for ever, but I fear it is His will to take me from you now! Believe me, dear husband, it is wisest to be prepared-place him?" the-" "It is wisest, my dear Geneviève," interrupted Mathieu, "to take rest, and preserve hope. Till this morning, leaden weight has been preying heavily upon my heart; but now I can once more breathe, believing what I see, in spite of all your fears. In the name of heaven, let the love of life return, for my sake, and then you will live, I am certain !" Geneviève endeavoured to hold out her hand to him, and replied, whilst two little tear-drops filtered from her eyes, the last which emotion had power to draw from their exhausted fountains, "You are very good, Mathieu, you are very good! and my greatest regret upon my death-bed is, that I did not always perceive how good you were, and have not always been so grateful as I ought to have been! People would love those dear to them a thousand times more than they do, if they were only to recollect that they must one day leave them! Since my return to consciousness, I have thought of nothing else than the faults and offences I have committed against my husband; and oh! how they have filled me with remorse! Oh! tell me you will have mercy, Mathieu-tell me you will par don me !" "Do not speak thus, beloved child, for pity's sake!" Mathieu here interrupted her by ex "I have," responded her husband. towards him her enfevered eyes, "Then,” replied the dying woman, turning 66 come to my aid, and listen to me-I will confess to you!" She exerted her last strength to raise herself upon her elbow, signing to her husband to offer but he obeyed. He belonged to that race which no objection. For his part, he was astonished, is almost extinct even in Brittany, which preserve the simple faith of other days. Often had he seen on shipboard an old sailor like himself kneel by the side of a dying one, and receive the confession of his sins as though he were a priest, and therefore he was more troubled than surprised at this request of Geneviève's. When he had murmured the prayer which, in the custom of the Catholic Church, precedes confession, he bared his head, and made the sign of Great Spirit, that He would enable him to fulfil the cross, and uttered a mental prayer to the his new function. The scene which followed was gloomy and affecting in the extreme. The first grey streaks of dawn were illumining the alcove; the head of Geneviève was bent towards that of Mathieu, and her lips were murmuring almost inaudibly the syllables in which she imparted the supreme confidence. Her husband often interrupted her, L in a low voice, to beg her to abbreviate her un-, just self-accusations; but she persisted always with that determination which influences consciences like hers-so severe when it is themselves that are concerned, so yielding when it is others. At last, when she had ended, Mathieu drew from his bosom au ivory crucifix, pressed it upon the lips of his dying wife, and, placing his hand upon her forehead, murmured, with a sorrowful and sad gravity, "May God pardon thee, as I do, to the uttermost; and if it is His will that you should no longer live with me to make my happiness, may He find for thee a place in His paradise!" The countenance of Geneviève then took an expression of ineffable serenity. "Thanks, dear husband, thanks!" she softly mumured; "your absolution will prevail above. At this hour I feel in peace!" The first ray of the morning sun at this moment shot through the window, and the sick one turned towards it. “God has given me a respite," she then said. "Here is a day I had never thought to see! He has thereby accorded me the last joy I hope for upon earth. I know you will not refuse it me-will you, Mathieu, my good husband?" "Ask," was his answer; and if man can do it, it shall be done." "Have you not said that Dorot could see and understand our signals?" "I have. It is the truth." Then, in the name of your love for me, Mathieu, I beg you to ask him to conduct Marie to the terrace of la poudrière; and then, when he has done that, to carry me in your arms to the great rock, and let me see my child before I die!" "I will do it,” replied Ropars, who had by this time given up hope, and could deny his poor wife nothing. With that he precipitated himself out of the alcove, as though he feared he should scarcely have time to fulfil her wishes. In a few moments he returned, crying that Marie was already upon the terrace, with her uncle. Geneviève raised a feeble cry of happiness, and held her arms out towards her husband. He wrapped her in his winter cloak, and carried her gently towards the parapet of the platform. "Where is she?" then demanded the dying woman, whose eyes (too weak to bear the light of day) were endeavouring in vain to fulfil their office. "I see nothing, Mathieu. Where is my infant? Show her to me! O show her to me!" "Look there, at our feet," responded her husband. "You see la grande roche there, can you not?" 66 "Yes," said Geneviève. f my beyond it. O, if I should be too late! If my eyes should not enable me to see her! Ó Heavenly Father! once more before I die, shew me my child!" These words, or rather the cries of the mother, were so exceedingly sorrowful, that Ropars could not manage to refrain from tears. He seated his dying wife upon the ground, that he might be better able to sustain her. "Courage, my darling!" he then endeavoured to sob out. "Look hard upon this side, between the line of the sky and that of the sea!" "I look," was Geneviève's answer. And she seemed by a last effort to be assembling all her failing powers, in order to enable her to pierce the distance between her and the Ile des Morts. "Raise my head a bit, Mathieu! Hide me from the sun! Give-" She interrupted herself with a stifled exclamation and the cry of "Ah! there! look there, Mathieu. She has seen me. She raises her arms O! Marie !—my daughter-my child-" A fugitive ray of life illumined her features; she sent her gaze after Marie, and went hear her; she joined her hands, and prayed on speaking to her as though she could to Heaven for her with strained convulsive sobs-and all the time she smiled and wept at once. At last she seemed to have no strength left for the support of so many emotions, and husband, who, dismayed, took her again to his she leaned her head upon the shoulder of her arms to carry her into the house. But she signed to him that she wished to remain in the open air, under the blue sky; and he placed her tenderly upon the bank upon which it had been long customary for the whole family to gather in the evenings, to sit for a time in front of the swelling sea, at the present moment so grandly illumined by the rising sun. For a long time she was too feeble to speak at all; then she faintly asked to be shown her child again. Mathieu looked towards la poudrière, and told her that Dorot had taken the child away. She bowed her head in sorrowful resignation. "He has done well, however," she whispered, in the weakest possible accents, 66 'for my eyes are failing me, and I have something to say to you in the few moments which remain. Come near, Mathieu!-my voice is going! Give me your hand-I must be sure you hear me!" Mathieu knelt upon the sand beside her, placed one hand in those of Geneviève and the other round her waist for a support. "You are going to be left alone, Mathieu," his wife then continued; "elsewhere you might have been able to live alone; but here, in the middle of the sea, to do so would be to live neither the life of a man nor that of a Christian. You have been accustomed to have some one to keep you "Can you follow the sea-foam as far as the company, and to love you. When I am gone bar?" "Yes." And beyond it, cannot you see the Ile des Morts ?" "Beyond it? O no! All is a dark cloud you must take another in my place." "Never!" interrupted her husband. But she imposed silence upon him by a gesture, and continued, tenderly, "Whilst I am with you, you will think so; but when I am put into the earth, you will feel that you lack some one. Ah! do not believe that I reproach you, my dear husband. I only wish to ensure your happiness if I can! When you take away the crape from off your arms, Mathieu, promise me that you will remember that little girl who is our daughter, and who will remain to you as a souvenir of me. You must promise me to find her another mother! "How can you ask me to do this?" cried Ropars. "Who can be her mother, or my wife, but you?" 66 Some one," replied Geneviève, "who would not have wished to have been chosen by you the first time. A brave heart, capable of loving a young orphan, of speaking to her of me, and of teaching her to love God and obey you. If you will promise me this, I shall rest in peace!" Ropars promised, amid sobs; and this was the last effort of Geneviève's. After having thanked him by a look (all she was able to do), she fell into his arms-a corpse! It seemed as though by a strong effort of her will she had retarded the approach of death in order to obtain this promise from her husband, and had then no longer any hold on life. Her last words-half inarticulate-were a prayer to Heaven for Mathieu and her child. On the morrow the grave of Geneviève was opened to receive her mother, there not being soil enough in the island left unused for another grave. Instructed respecting what was about to happen, Dorot conducted Marie to the summit of the Ile des Morts, to witness the funeral and pray for her mother as they laid her in the earth. Geneviève's was the last death that occurred in the island. It seemed as though she were an expiating victim. Fifteen days after, the yellow flag was taken down from the mast of the lazaretto, and Marie returned to her afflicted parent. Three years have passed away, but he has not yet married. His daughter he finds a more than sufficient consolation, and the sweetest of all possible blessings and benedictions. THE WORK-TABLE. ANTI-MACASSAR, IN DIAMOND NETTING. MATERIALS:-Messrs. W. Evans and Co.'s Boar's Head Crochet Cotton, No. 4; a Bone Mesh, No. 8; This being done in common diamond-netting, | 68 stiches, and net backwards and forwards no description of it will be required. Begin on until a perfect square is made. Be careful to darn it entirely in the same direction. The | five rounds should be done with double cotton; border may either be any netted edging, or a making it sufficiently full at the corners, and fringe knotted on. In the latter case, four or knotting the fringe in the last row. CARRIAGE-BAG, IN BEAD-WORK. AIGUILLETTE. MATERIALS:-Coarse Canvas, Torquoise, Maize, Alabaster, Ruby, and Black Beads-all No. 1. Also a reel of Messrs. Walter Evans and Co.'s Boar's Head Cotton, No. 10, and several skeins of coarse Black Crochet Silk. In one engraving we give the representation | materials certainly possess merits which wool of the bag complete; in the other, a working section of a single piece and the border. As and silk do not, beads not being liable to fade or grow shabby-a matter of great consequence when the work is likely to be exposed to much wear and tear, as must be the case with a travelling-bag. The entire design and border are worked in beads, the canvas being chosen of such a size that each bead covers a square. Penelope canvas is far the best for every sort of beadwork. Put on the beads with strong cotton, and all in the same direction. The alabaster appear only in the border, and are represented by those squares that are quite white. The black are engraved the same colour; and the blue are marked, both in the border and the piece, by horizontal lines. A line of rubies goes down each side of the border, and these beads also form part of the piece. They are represented by black squares, with a dot in each. Those squares in the pattern which are crossed both ways are done in maize beads. The ground is worked with black silk in ordinary cross-stitch; but of course wool may be used for this purpose, if preferred. The bag must be mounted at a warehouse. POINT-LACE COLLAR. MATERIALS:-French Braid, No. 7, and a set of the Point-Lace Cottons of Messrs. Walter Evans and Co., Boar's Head Cotton Manufacturers, of Derby. ། pleasures, in the brightest, least changeable, and most genial season of the year. Christmas is a happy time, with its feasts and (Author of "Florence Sackville," "The Gram- merry-makings; but almost all the children I mar-school Boys," &c.) Holidays! holidays! midsummer holidays! What other phrase in the language conveys to boys and girls so many pictures of enjoyment and delight? Hay-making, cherry-gathering, cricketing, bow-and-arrow shooting, out-of-door teas and dinners, fishing, boating, comings home by moonlight, and all the happy round of country know give the preference to midsummer. Nor do I wonder. Except for boys, Christmas is especially the time for in-door amusements, of which children have seldom great store or choice, and of which they soon grow tired; but midsummer, with its long days and bright skies, its endless variety and thousand pleasures, is just the season for enjoyment; and most thoroughly do the newly-freed prisoners render it justice. |