person present, not a person in this city, but would, I am sure, feel for my slightest sufferings. I came here determined to begin the operation to-morrow at day-break and I have now told you my intention, which I shall not shrink from performing. Solemnly I swear before God, that with His favour, I will fulfil the duty to which I believe He has called me."

Guyon had been an orphan almost from his birth; he had but a few, and those distant, relations, scattered about parts of Provence far from Marseilles. While yet an infant his unprotected situation had interested the compassion of the good Bishop of Marseilles, who had been ever afterwards his unchanging friend. Guyon, however, had gradually risen to eminence by his own exertions, and at this time was in possession of a considerable fortune. On leaving the Hotel de Ville, he proceeded immediately to the Palace of his friend the Bishop. The truly Christian conduct of this venerable prelate is well known when he heard of the ravages of the plague among his flock, he set off without delay from Paris, and rested not, by night or day, till he reached Marseilles, that like Aaron, when the plague had begun in the camp of the children of Israel, he might hasten into the midst of the people, and there, standing between the dead and the living, offer unto the Most High the incense of prayer, and faith, and love unfeigned. In Marseilles he still remained, for

;

he knew that he could not leave it till the plague had ceased. Its gates had long been closed, and a body of soldiers were stationed at some distance round the city, to prevent the inhabitants from passing out, or, indeed, holding any communication with the rest of their countrymen.-The Bishop heard the determination of his young friend with profound silence. Guyon waited for his reply, but the old man only gazed upon him and wept.-" Let me leave you now," said Guyon, with a faltering voice," and return hither to-night, to receive from you the last sacrament." "Yes, my son," replied the holy prelate, "" I would have you leave me now; this surprise hath half broken my heart; I must not entreat you to renounce the glorious undertaking, and yet I cannot, indeed I cannot, bid you perform it. Go," he added, in a firmer voice, "go from me now, the next few hours must not be lost to you. By God's help I will meet you with strength which I have not at present, but which those who seek with full purpose of spirit, will never fail to find."

There was one other house to which Guyon now directed his steps, but he often turned from the wellknown door, and returned, and turned back again, before he could find heart to enter. It was in a little silent street at the highest part of the city, and its only inhabitants were an old female, her daughter, and one servant. Madame Longard had been as

a mother to Guyon. In her house he had passed his boyhood, and he loved her and Delphine, his fostersister, with his whole heart. The spoiler had not entered that small and humble dwelling, and Guyon found its gentle inmates at work in their pleasant upper parlour, which looked out upon a small herbgarden behind the house. He soon perceived that his determination had not reached them; and he resolved not to mention it, but to leave a letter for them at his own house. His efforts to be cheerful were successful: he conversed with an appearance of playful animation, and quitted the room without betraying any signs of the agony which wrung his bosom. He had not been gone more than a minute when Delphine remembered that she had not given him a small bouquet of lavender and vervain, and some other fragrant herbs and flowers, which she had gathered for Guyon, who seldom passed a day without seeing her. She ran quickly down stairs, and opening the door of the house, looked up the street, intending to call him back and offer him the fresh bouquet. Guyon was not to be seen. Delphine closed the door much disappointed, and was returning to her mother, when she heard a deep-drawn sigh very near her; she stopped and looked around. The door of a little dark chamber, in the front of the house, had started open, as she closed that leading into the street. Guyon was

there, kneeling on the ground, his hands raised, and spread out towards heaven, as if asking a blessing from thence; his face had quite lost the calm cheerfulness which she had last seen there, and his chest seemed to heave with suppressed anguish. Delphine would fain have entered, but she dared not; she felt that Guyon might deem her presence an intrusion. She turned away, and stole lightly up stairs; she sate down upon the highest step, and waited to hear Guyon enter the passage beneath. She heard the latch of the street-door moved by his hand, and then she ran down to stop him. "Dear Marc, are you still here?" she said faintly, "I am glad to find you, I had gathered these herbs and flowers for you, and I forgot them; their smell may be pleasant to you in your dangerous visits to the dying. Delphine held out the flowers, but could not say another word. Guyon himself seemed half unconscious that she was speaking, he appeared lost in agonizing thoughts: at last with some calmness, he took her hand and led her to the room he had just quitted. "May I trust you, Delphine?" he said, in a whisper, can you trust yourself? Will you near me, not as a mere woman, but as a faithful disciple of Him who was a man of sorrows, and deeply acquainted with grief? You do not answer me-I should not have spoken thus, but I believe that you have witnessed my anguish of soul in this chamber. I thought that some person had

on?"

passed along the passage, and when I saw you, your countenance told me who that person was. May I go "You may,” replied Delphine, without raising her eyes. "These are, I know, fearful times," she added, " and we live daily prepared for some great calamity." She now sat still as death, she heard every word which Guyon spoke. "Are you ill, Delphine?" he said wildly, when he had finished speaking :"you are ill. The shock has been too great for my sweet sister." "No, no, I am not ill," she replied,—and never once did she raise her eyes. "I shall do all that you would have me."Guyon rose up from her side and kissed her cold cheek, yet he still lingered, and looked down upon her with tender affection. "No, I am not ill," she repeated," and you must go. But take this," she added, in the same low, mournful voice, holding out to him again the little bunch of herbs, which she had kept all the while in her hand.-Delphine was alone; she laid her head upon the table beside her and closed her eyes, for a cold torpor seemed to have crept on all her faculties. "Oh! would to God that I could die with him!" she at length said, starting up, "Oh that I might share with him in the dangers of that horrid work!-If he were one mass of vile corruption, as he will be but too soon, I could rejoice to pillow his poor head upon this throbbing breast!— And he has loved another!" she exclaimed, with a