"I regret not having known your position sooner. But, my child, in no circumstances of life should we abandon ourselves to despair.» "Ah! I do not know," cried the sick girl, "what got into me; there were a hundred reasons if one. First, when mamma died, that was a blow. Then I felt myself abandoned-no one interested in me. And at last, some one of whom I thought more than of all the rest of the world put together-madame, to forget even my name! Yes, I am named Arsène Guillot,G, u, i, double 1: he writes it with a y!" "And so you have been deceived, poor child?" resumed Madame de Piennes after a moment of silence. "I? No. How can a miserable girl like myself be deceived? Only he did not care for me any longer. He was right: I am not the kind for him. He was always good and generous. wrote to him, telling him how it was with me, and if he wishedThen he wrote to me-what hurt me very much.- The other day, when I came back to my room, I let fall a looking-glass that he had given me; a Venetian mirror, he called it. It broke. I said to myself, That is the last stroke! That is a sign that all is at an end.' I had nothing more from him. All the jewelry I had pawned. And then I said to myself, that if I destroyed myself that would hurt him, and I would be revenged. The window was open, and I threw myself out of it." "But, unfortunate creature that you are! the motive was as frivolous as the action was criminal." "Well-what then? When one is in trouble, one does not reflect. It is very easy for happy people to say, 'Be reasonable,>» "I know it,- misfortune is a poor counselor; nevertheless, even in the midst of the most painful trials there are things one should not forget. I saw you a short while ago perform an act of piety at St. Roch. You have the happiness to believe. Your religion, my dear, should have restrained you, at the very moment you were abandoning yourself to despair. You received your life from God. It does not belong to you. But I am wrong to scold you now, poor little one. You repent, you suffer: God will have mercy upon you." Arsène bent her head, and tears moistened her eyelids. "Ah, madame!" she said with a great sigh, "you believe me to be better than I am.-You believe me to be pious. I am not 9953 very much so. I was not taught—and if you saw me at church burning a candle, it was because I did not know what else to put my wits at." "Well, my dear, it was a good thought. In misfortune, it is always to God that one must turn." "They told me that if I burned a candle to St. Roch― But no, madame, I cannot tell you that. A lady like you does not know what one can do when one has not a sou." "One must ask God for courage above all." "Anyway, madame, I do not wish to make myself out better than I am; and it would be stealing to profit by the charity you show me, without knowing what I am. I am an unfortunate girl- But in this world one lives as one can.-To come to an end, madame, I burned a candle because my mother said that when one burned a candle to St. Roch, eight days never passed without finding some one >> Madame de Piennes with downcast eyes murmured faintly: "Your mother! Poor thing! how can you dare to say it?" "Oh, my mother was like all mothers - all the mothers of such as we. She supported her mother; I supported her; — fortunately I have no child- I see, madame, that it frightens youbut what would you have? You have been well reared; you have never lacked. When one is rich, it is easy to be honest. As for me, I would have been honest had I had the means. I never loved but one man, and he left me.- See, madame, I am talking to you this way, so frankly, although I see what you think of me; and you are right. But you are the only honest woman I ever talked to in my life and you look so good-that a while ago I said to myself, 'Even when she knows what I am, she will take pity on me. I am going to die, and I ask of you only one favor: to have a mass said for me in the church where I first saw you. One single prayer, that is all, and I thank you. from the bottom of my heart." You "No, you will not die," cried Madame de Piennes, greatly moved. "God will have pity upon you, poor sinful one. will repent of your faults and he will pardon you. Those who have reared you are more guilty than you are. Only have courage and hope. Try above all to be calmer, my poor child. The body must be cured; the soul is ill too; but I will answer for its cure." She had risen while speaking, rolling in her fingers a piece. of paper that contained a few louis. XVII-623 "Take this," she said, "if you have any little fancy-» slipping it under the pillow. "No, madame!" cried Arsène impetuously, thrusting back the paper: "I do not wish anything from you but what you have promised. Good-by. We shall see one another no more. Have me taken to a hospital, so that I can die without bothering any one. You would never be able to make anything out of me. A great lady like you will have prayed for me; I am content. Adieu." And turning around as much as the apparatus that held her to the bed would permit, she hid her head in the pillow, so as to keep from seeing anything further. "Listen, Arsène," said Madame de Piennes in a grave tone. "I have plans for you: I want to make an honest woman of you. I have confidence in your repentance. I shall see you often, I shall take care of you. One day you will owe me your self-esteem, "-taking her hand, which she pressed lightly. "You have touched me," cried the poor girl, “you have pressed my hand.” And before Madame de Piennes could withdraw her hand, she seized it and covered it with tears and kisses. "Calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear," said Madame de Piennes. "You must not talk any more. Now I know all, and I understand you better than you understand yourself. It is I who am to be the doctor of your head-your poor weak head. And you must obey me- I insist upon that—just like any other doctor. I shall send you in a priest, one of my friends. You must listen to him. I shall choose good books for you; you must read them. We will talk together sometimes. And when you get better, we will busy ourselves about your future.” The nurse entered, fetching a vial from the druggist. Arsène continued to weep. Repentance was not difficult for poor Arsène, who, with the exception of a few hours of gross pleasure, had known only the miseries of life. The poor girl was in a pitiable condition. It was evident that her last hour was near. Her respiration was nothing more than a painful rattle; and Madame de Piennes was told that several times during the morning she had been delirious, and that the physician did not think she could last until the next day. Arsène, however, recognized her protectress and thanked her for coming. "You will not tire yourself any more by mounting my stairs," she said in a faint voice. Every word seemed to cost her a painful effort, and exhaust the little strength she had left. They had to bend over her to hear her. Madame de Piennes took her hand; it was already cold and inanimate. Max arrived shortly after, and silently approached the bed of the dying girl. She made him a slight sign of the head, and noticing that he had a book in his hand,-"You will not read to-day," she murmured faintly. Abbé Dubignon, who had been all the morning with Arsène, observing with what rapidity her strength was being exhausted, wished to use for her salvation the few moments that yet remained to her. He motioned Madame de Piennes and Max aside; and bending over the bed of suffering, he spoke to the poor girl those solemn and consoling words that religion reserves for such moments. In a corner of the room, madame was on her knees praying; Max, standing at a window, seemed transformed into a statue. "You pardon all those who have offended you, my daughter?» said the priest in a moved voice. "Yes. May they be happy," said the dying girl, making an effort to be heard. "Trust in the mercy of God, my daughter," resumed the Abbé: "repentance opens the gates of heaven." For several minutes longer the Abbé continued his exhortations; then he ceased to speak, in doubt whether he had not a corpse before him. Madame de Piennes softly arose to her feet, and each one remained for awhile motionless, anxiously looking at the livid face of Arsène. Each one was holding breath, for fear of disturbing the terrible slumber that perhaps had commenced for her; the ticking of a watch on the stand by the bed was distinctly heard in the room. "She has passed away, the poor young lady," at last said the nurse, after holding her snuff-box before the lips of Arsène: see, the glass is not dimmed. She is dead." "Poor child," cried Max, coming out of the stupor in which he seemed sunk, "what happiness has she known in this world!" Of a sudden, as if recalled by his voice, Arsène opened her eyes: "I have loved," she said in a lifeless voice. "I have loved," she repeated with a sad smile. They were her last words. Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Grace King. THE MEXICAN NUN LA MONJA DE MEXICO-JUANA YÑEZ DE LA CRUZ W (1651-1695) BY JOHN MALONE HILE, in the middle of the seventeenth century, that portion of North America which now comprises the United States was unexplored wilderness, the empire of Spain held a brilliant court in the city of the Montezumas. Scholars, artists, and philosophers, boasting the best blood of proud Castilian races, were gathered in the New World about the persons who represented the Crown and its authority. Great must have been the surprise of the learned and able in the imperial city of Madrid, when in 1689, in that city, Maria Luisa, Countess of Parades, wife of the viceroy of Mexico, caused to be published a volume of poems by a native of the wonderful country in which Cortez and his daring followers had set up the triumphant standard of Spain. Still greater was the wonder when upon reading, it was found that these poems of "La Monja de Mexico" (The Mexican Nun) were brilliant enough to compare with any from the pen of the most admired and distinguished authors of the home land. So eagerly was the book read, and so passionately admired, that in three years it went through as many editions, and gained for the cloistered writer the unanimous tribute of the title "La Decima Musa" (The Tenth Muse). Her world called her simply "The Mexican Nun"; but subsequent generations have added to that title the name of "Immortal honor of her sex and native land." THE MEXICAN NUN The distinguished Father Luis Morales, abbot of the monastery of San Joaquin in Madrid, who approved the printing of the book, said of |