he had never before heard anything like it, and he thought it must be made by his angel.

Angelo had, in the course of the night, wandered very far from the village where he had lived with Paul, and had descended the other side of the mountain, where there was another village, on the opposite edge of the forest. He was stiff with cold and fatigue, and did not recollect how he came there, but he arose, and went in the direction whence the sounds appeared to come. In a little while he saw a chapel in a niche of rocks; a number of villagers were coming from the door, one of whom carried a little infant, which had just been christened. They none of them saw Angelo, who was concealed by a rock, and they were going further down into the valley; but the curé, who left the chapel last, came up a winding path, exactly to the spot where Angelo was standing.

"Who are you, my poor little boy, and where do you come from?" he asked, looking at him compassionately; for Angelo had lost both his sabots, his feet were bleeding, and his clothes were torn.

Angelo looked at him, but did not reply.

The curé spoke again, and Angelo began to cry; being worn out for want of food. The curé took him by the hand, and said, “Come along with me, poor child." He led him to his house, close to the chapel, and calling his servant, bade her wash his poor, little, bleeding feet, whilst he himself prepared a large bowl of hot milk and bread.

"Poor little boy!" said the compassionate old woman, "he has wandered far. He belongs to somebody who will be sorry enough, not knowing he has fallen into good hands."

"No; there is nobody who will be sorry about me, only Paul, and he will beat me for having lost my way."

And who is Paul, my little man?"

Paul! he is the man they gave me to, when grandmother was burned,"

They gave you! Who gave you? Have you no father or mother?"

'No; I never had. I had grandmother."

66
'And who is Paul ?"

"A man in the village up yonder; he has asses,

and cuts wood, and makes charcoal. I must go

back, or he will kill me. And I could not find his hatchet. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Come, do not cry, little man; and we will see what can be done. You shall not go back yet."

This promise consoled Angelo a little; and, under the influence of the good fire and the good breakfast, he fell asleep in his chair. The curé took him up and laid him in his own bed, and came back to consult with Madame Molé, his only domestic, as to what was to be done with him.

"He is nothing but skin and bone, and all over marks of blows and bruises. He has been starved and ill-used," said Madame Molé; “it is a shame to see him."

"I wonder who he belongs to," said the curé.

"He is too pretty to be one of the children in. that village over on the other side. I have been told that they do not live like human beings, and are worse than heathens," said the housekeeper.

Hush," replied her master, "we are not to speak ill of our neighbours; and, besides, it does this poor child no good."

"If we find that he really belongs to nobody,