"M. de Presle, listen to me, in turn! My God is mine and I am his. He is the God of the humble, the God that dries up tears, the God that will restore us our dead. I believe in Christ, the Saviour. He met me when I was pursuing my way, lost and wicked like you; for neither did I love him. He stooped; he stretched his hands, his wounded hands, to me, and opened to me the heavens. He is my lord and master; I have his forgiveness, and he my promise; he is my God, and I will serve no other!"

Camille fell back exhausted on the turf. She was beautiful in her youthful faith —a clear, strong conviction, which doubted nothing, and was disturbed by nothing -ignorant, perchance presumptuous, too sure of itself, too quickly exasperated, merciless to hesitation and cruel to skepticism, but frank, healthy, and wholly impulsive.

And how many times, in our bark, tossed by contrary winds, have we not turned our eyes toward that beautiful morning of our convictions-toward that time when we set out, under full sail, on a sea bathed with light, and gliding over the unruffled azure, took it upon ourselves to defy tempests, to wish for hurricanes, and to brave the enemy!

ས་ ་ ་

Victor was silent. A storm was raging in his heart, but he was master of his emotions. After some moments' silence, he fixed a long and earnest gaze on the young girl. Thanks, Camille!" said he, extending his hand to her. "You are happy. May God, your God, guard well your happiness."

A tear fell from Camille's eyes. Max appeared. All then quitted the shelter of the beeches and the high pastures. No more was said. Max himself submitted, without understanding it, to the influence of the cloud that had passed over their sky. And when they returned at evening their faces were so sad that aunt Lise, terrified, exclaimed, "Has any misfortune occurred?"

CHAPTER VII.

MISFORTUNE! no.

deed, when we are pressing onward, without thought of halting; when our hopes are not blighted; when our wings are not drooping; when the morning dews are besprinkling our path with diamonds reflecting all the colors of the rainbow?

Camille, leaning on the window-sill during the first hours of the night, soon shook off the melancholy. The heavens spoke to her, in their magnificence, of the power of God, as the gentle breezes spoke to her of his goodness. All was triumphant in this wondrous moonless night, illumined with thousands of constellations. And there was also something like triumph in the heart of the young girl. She had confessed her faith. Her God, who bore no resemblance to the pale, dim, lustreless deity of the philosophers, her God, content with her, would know how to prove his existence to rebellious spirits!

She dreamed, her gaze lost in the starry depths. Her youthful brow seemed crowned with a halo of victory. She had grown, and, conscious of her strength, she bent from the luminous heights where she was walking, with brow erect, and beckoned to the poor wandering soul, lost amid the icy regions of doubt.

In the morning Camille's face still wore its glorious radiance. Michel, who was awaiting her, napkin on arm, looked at her with an astonished air as she entered, proud and beaming.

"Does not Mademoiselle know?"
"What, Michel?"

"But Mademoiselle was surely informed!"

"I of what?"

so gently! Toward midnight, the disease turned for the better. The Viscount dismissed us all, and stayed alone with him. The doctor said this morning, 'If it had not been for the Viscount, it would be all over with poor Jacques!'"

The honest man might have gone on a long time. Camille did not proffer a syllable. She stood motionless, her eyes fixed on one spot, and her heart agitated by a thousand thoughts. Yes, she had been informed. She remembered it now. She had even prescribed something and recommended that care should be taken of him, after which, she, the Christian, while an old servant was dying, had abandoned herself to the enchantment of her reverie! And he who had consoled the sufferer, he who had wiped the sweat of death from his brow, was M. de Presle, the philosopher, the doubter!

She detested herself-oh, so cordially! What would he think of her convictions? What opinion would he conceive of a faith so powerless in charity?

At this instant M. de Presle appeared, as simple as was his wont. Aunt Lise hastened to him, moved by the events of the night, exclaiming,

"Well done, my child!"

CHAPTER VIII.

IN the heats of summer, about the middle of the month of August, torrents of rain at times cast a gloom over the mountain regions; gusts of wind whistle furiously through the trees; the atmosphere is heavy with masses of clouds, and hoar frosts, come from no one knows where— perchance from some iceberg just dissolving in the Arctic seas-suddenly overtake both plants and men.

We have winter without the glitter of the snow, without the sweets of the fireside. Seized in the midst of the season of bloom, Nature becomes crisp and withered. The limbs, gently relaxed by the summer's heat, stiffen and become contracted. The soul seems wrapped in a winding-sheet. The heavy hours drag their slow weight along.

It is then that the truly brave are known-those beings superior to the weather, those rulers who see the rain fall and hear the winds blow, indifferent to the vicissitudes of the atmosphere; those firmly-rooted natures that can neither be shaken by the tempest nor saddened by the mist, and near whom the weaknesses of humanity dare not venture. Victor was one of these. While Camille wandered about disconsolate, and

getic as ever, labored with courage.

One morning he entered, his arms loaded with books. He set to work at Latin zealously with Max. He offered Aunt Lise to arrange the semblance of a

body."

"It is too much fuss for nothing." He smiled, and began to talk of something else.

Camille was silent. A furtive glance shot from under her eyelashes in the direction of M. de Presle. This timid, this humiliated glance, could he have seen it, might have lighted up the Captain's brow. But neither on this day, nor the following ones, did Victor seem to care for any one but the keeper and Aunt Lise.

"Of course," answered Max.

How many old books were moved, what clouds of long undisturbed dust took flight! M. De Presle stood on the ladder, while Camille, at the bottom, stretched out her hands full of books to him, or flitted to or from the piles on the floor. They opened the volumes at random, and marveled at their superannuated style, or amused themselves with the quaint engravings. Discoveries were not lacking. The rain might fall, and the clouds gather their dark columns! At evening, weary with

delight, they displayed the treasure-store to Aunt Lise, who, disdainful of the fine writings of the wits, shook her head and murmured, "Vanity of Vanities!"

Then M. de Presle, opening an old Corneille, read those heroic lines, vibrating with the melody of his manly voice. Max's heart kindled with noble fire. Camille, her fingers motionless on the work which was falling from them, contemplated his martial visage, and listened to his impassioned, yet restrained accents, which seemed replete with secret ardor.

Two or three times the Captain's eyes fell on this young, dreamy countenance, so completely absorbed; he turned pale, and his voice suddenly trembled.

Then they set to work to study; they took up geology and history. They read foreign poems-Lalla Rookh and the ballad of Lenore. Camille breathlessly followed the mysteries of the Veiled Prophet through the magic spells of the East. She gathered up the tear of the Peri, borne to heaven by the angels; she bounded forward, with Lenore, on the pale horse of the betrothed, and felt an indescribable, mad happiness, an indescribable intoxication of idolatrous joy, as the terrible refrain,

"Huzza! the dead ride swiftly!" scanned the infernal gallop, as if the bottomless pit itself, with a loved one, must have its mysterious delights!

The young girl admired without measure. This poetry, abruptly revealed by sudden flashes, carried her to unknown spheres, the splendors of which dazzled her.

In the regions of thought, knowledge, and will, the Captain marched before as the leader; to follow him, Camille was forced to make an effort to look higher than herself. It was a new and charming sensation, which gave the young girl all the grace of a woman. But when this sort of mastership was established in the moral domain, when Camille saw the Captain more prompt than she in devotion, more tender to the weaknesses of Aunt Lise, more submissive to disappointments, more forgetful of himself, inspired VOL. VI.-33

with a more absolute modesty, problems were awakened in her which disturbed her rest.

Once, she endeavored to resume the subject touched upon on the mountain.

"To live without prayer!" she exclaimed, in a moment of unreserved confidence, "is frightful—it is impossible—I can never understand it!"

Victor frowned.

"There has been a time," said he, "when I could not have understood it either." "You have asked wrongly!" "Refusals teach one to be silent." "This is pride."

"It is resignation. Moreover, Camille, do not pity me too much. I, too, have my peace. I float at chance on the bosom of my destiny. The strong wind that raises the tempest sometimes falls, the waves are lulled, and we glide along, with eyes closed, over the calm and transparent zones.'

"But we must open our eyes, we must see the truth, we must conquer it."

"Do not reawaken me, Camille!" The young girl blushed. "Besides, I am something of a Turk, as you know. For to-day, thank God; for to-morrow, God is Great. Allah kerim!"

CHAPTER IX.

STRANGE to say, that superiority of M. de Presle, which so greatly disturbed the soul of Camille, left Aunt Lise's spirit at peace. She had lived longer, she had suffered more, her better-tempered faith was more tranquil. Her heart expanded freely amidst goodness like a flower amidst sunshine.

Then she had a conviction-a conviction all her own-not very orthodox in the sight of theologians, but which she had drawn from the contemplation of the ways of the Deity. The Holy Ghost, that Creator which stretches its way over the darkness of chaos, that burning love which warmed it, that light which made the stars shoot forth in its midst-the Holy Ghost itself acts without their perceiving it on many hearts that believe themselves abandoned. Many acts of charity are brought forth under this ardent pressure, many pure

flames are kindled by this vivifying fire, many sighs are exhaled-despairing and rebellious murmurs-which are the first stammerings of a soul wearied of doubts, a soul that calls, a heart which Christ will answer!

Thus thought Aunt Lise. A sweet smile parted her lips; she beckoned to Victor, who came and seated himself by her, and read him a few sacred words. He listened, at times casting down his head, buried in thought.

"He is advancing," Aunt Lise would

then murmur, "he is advancing, he will soon be there!"

Yes, if to cherish the gentle old woman, if to admire her humble courage, if to respect her tranquil and certain faith, if to follow her with a softened eye, when, at evening, with her dark lantern in her hand, she knocked at the poorest houses of the village, if to feel himself sadder in the midst of this peaceful atmosphereif all this was to advance, Victor was perhaps advancing.

(To be continued.)