poor to help her with money, but he helped her with her own funds. "Mademoiselle, you pay for every thing so regularly, that I am sure every body will trust you so now you have no money, you must live upon your good name." He smiled as he spoke, left her for a short time, and on his return informed her that the baker would trust her for what bread she wanted; and the farmer for as much milk, and as many potatoes as she chose, and that he would every day fetch her what she needed of these articles; "and, Mademoiselle, you can pay when you will."-"Ah! my good André, when can,"

I will pay

This arrangement calmed all Claudine's fears of absolute want; and, with freshened energy, she devoted herself to her duties. Night and morning, she prayed for Valence!—It was all she could do for him: but what could the richest do better? One, two, three weeks

moved heavily past no change had taken place.

Madame Weimar continued feeble and complaining, Fanchon continued ailing and weak. Bread, milk, potatoes, composed the sole food of the sick, as of the healthy! Little was M. Clément aware of the cruel change caused by his absence! How endless are the evils entailed upon tenantry and poor neighbours, by the absence of the wealthy proprietor from his mansion and demesnes !

At length a letter arrived-it was the handwriting of Valence!with what transport it was torn open!

66

'My dearest Claudine-We have gained a battle and your brother has lost a leg;-but do not afflict yourself: I am wonderfully well. They have cut off my leg, and it is going on properly. I write to you in haste, because my name is in the list of wounded; and as news never loses by travelling, perhaps some kind friend will tell you I am dead; but don't believe them, for I am alive and hearty,

and mean to continue so. My heart is with

you

all.

"VALENCE WEIMAR."

This was the long expected, warmly welcomed letter! So desperately wounded, and in a distant camp, far from friends and kindred! The blow fell heavily on Claudine, and almost stupified her. The feeble voice of her mother calling for her, aroused her as if from an oppressive dream. She sighed heavily, and holding her throbbing temples, tried to reflect on what was best to be done. Again Madame Weimar called, and Claudine, decided to conceal the event, hastily threw the paper into the fire, and attended the summons with as calm a countenance as she could command. "Did I not hear the voice of André, and something about a letter ?"-"Yes, dear mamma, a letter from Valence."-" Give it to me."- "Ah! mamma, forgive me-somehow it slipped from my hands into the fire and is burnt."- "That,

was sad carelessness, Claudine; but tell me, how is my boy?"-" He says he is wonderfully well those are precisely his words."-" God be praised!" murmured Madame Weimar, “ this news has done me good already." Claudine stifled her sobs, and sought to dwell chiefly on these consoling words of her mother's.

Claudine wrote a calm and soothing letter to her brother: she gave the best account she could of her mother and the family; besought him to be greatly careful of himself; pointed out to him the importance of his life to her and those around her; and, in short, said all that affection and good sense could dictate. Alas! this was all she could do for the beloved brother, whose ease and health she would have gladly purchased by the loss of her own. The knowledge of Valence's misfortune, and the uncertainty of its consequences, seemed to give the last blow to the suffering heart of Claudine; but she neither wept nor complained;-a sigh,

a moment of melancholy abstraction, were the only external signs of her bosomed wretchedness. But she neither forgot nor neglected the smallest of her duties, and often spent an hour in cheerful conversation with her mother; still oftener seated herself by the bed of Fanchon, and lulled the poor little invalid to sleep by singing plaintive airs and ditties.

Another week passed in this state of anxiety and exertion, and André brought word that heavy falls of snow had rendered the roads impassable. The post then could not be expected, and Claudine could not receive any remittance of her quarterly payment, nor any letter from her wounded brother. She now deemed her cup of bitterness full to the brim ; and was, one evening, struggling with her sorrows, and striving to reason herself into composure, when a peasant boy, opening the cottage-door, put a note into her hand. It was from the bailiff of M. Clément, demanding the