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met him, and, passing on, left him to con
tinue his anxious vigil.
As the mill-cart rolled into the yard,
and the driver began to unharness his
horses, Margaret stood on the threshold
of the Mill, one arm half hidden in her
apron, which, with the other she held up
before her eyes.
She went out into the yard, scattering
some grains of corn, making a peculiar
call which soon gathered her feathered
favorites about her, from all parts of the
yard.
The hens came running up, cackling
and flying, the roosters crowing, the
ducks quacking, as they waddled along
on their funny little legs, the turkeys
strutting and gobbling; the pigeons coo
ing, while even some saucy sparrows came
flitting up in the midst of the noisy throng.
All these were fussing, squabbling, strug
gling, scrambling, in greedy haste to the
feet of the young girl, who scarcely no
ticed them, scattering mechanically the
corn amongst them, paying but little at
tention to the happy recipients of her
bounty. She was apparently absorbed
in watching the movements of the young
carter, seeming, in a measure, to be
guided by them; for no sooner had be
unharnessed his animals and taken them
into the stable—where it was his inten
tion to fasten them near their well-filled
bins—than Margaret let all the corn she
held in her apron, fall suddenly to the
ground, instead of throwing it about grain
by grain, as she had been doing. Then
she crossed over to a fowl-house, near the
stable, that Etienne had just entered.
She had scarcely gone into the building,
when a great noise was heard.
“Etienne! Etienne!” she cried out,
though her cries were scarcely calculated
to make him uneasy, as she laughed out
merrily at the same time.
“ "\\ hat is it, Mademoiselle ?” asked the
young man in great agitation, as he stood
looking into the fowl-house.
“Ah ! nothing- very serious. Trying
to reach the eggs from those nests up
there, I knocked down the perches, and
cannot put them back by myself. Will
you help me ?”
“ Let them alone, Mademoiselle. You
may hurt yourself. I will fix them for
you.”
“ Very well; do so.”
And Margaret moved off towards the
door, where she stood waiting until the
young man had replaced the perches.
“ Voila /” he cried. “Does that suit
you now ?” and he turned to leave the
fowl-house, but was obliged to stop face
to lace with Margaret, evincing no little
surprise, when she put out her hand, and
stopped him, saying :
“Wait a moment, if you please, Etienno
I have something to say to you.”
“Tome? To say to me!” repeated
the young man in an agitated voice.
“ Yes,” said Margaret, dryly. “Does
that astonish you ? Eh ! mon Dieu !
perhaps I am as much surprised at my
self as you are. But we cannot always
act by rule. There are certain occasions
that are independent of all control.”
Margaret paused, and breathed as
quickly after these short sentences, as
though she had been making some long
and labored speech.
The young man continued to gaze on
her in silent amazement.
“ Etienne,” resumed she, with a pecua
liarly sweet tone and look,” if I ask a
service of you ; a very great service,
perhaps ?”
“ Then, Mademoiselle,” replied he,
“ you have only to name it, and, if it be
in my power, it is an accomplished fact.”
“Without ever knowing what it may
be,” she said, with a smile, though her
expression was still serious and earnest.
“ M ithout knowing anything at all
about it,” replied Etienne, with perfect
confidence.
“Ah, is ft so?” said the young girl,
thoughtfully. Then she smiled again ;
but this time more joyously:
“ I must give you fair warning, though,
that this affair may be somewhat trouble
some to you.”
“We will fix all that,” said Etienne,
without the least hesitancy, though there
was nothing like vain boasting, or over
confidence, in his manner.
“You must understand me, though.
It would weigh upon my conscience, if I
did not give you this warning,”
“ Yes. I understand. Thank you,
Mademoiselle.” And his look of deep
attention seemed to invite her to speak at
once and freely.
1 l icn Margaret quietly proceeded :
“ Do you know, Etienne, there is a cer
tain good Christian here, at this time, who
seems to me to stand in need of a good
lesson V’
“What! Demoiselle !” cried Etienne,
starting, while he clenched his fist, and
his eyes flashed, “has he been guilty of
any disrespect to you ?”
“Oh! no! no! Nothing of that kind.
But, no matter. Without just telling
you why*, I repeat that he stands in need
of a good lesson.”
“ Well, we must give it to him, then,
Demoiselle; we must give it,” said Etienne,
in a voice of calm and determined reso
lution. “ Allons /” and from the bellige
rent attitude he assumed—which could
not but make Margaret smile—one would
have thought he were about under
taking some feat of arms.
“ Softly, softly,” said the young girl,
laughing, “open your great fists, and
put down your sleeves; it is nothing at
all of that kind.”
“ Ah ! what is it, then ?” asked Etinne,
almost regretfully.
“Wait, then,” returned Margaret, with
an abruptness that showed she was
afraid of losing courage if she lingered
on her words. “ I will tell you at once,
Etienne. But, remember, I have your
promise that you will not withdraw
from my service, no matter what I may
ask of you. You will keep good faith
with me ? I know it! lam sure of it.”
“ Speak, Demoiselle, speak !”
“ Y<~u remember, then, a certain con
versatx?n, at which you were present,
day before yesterday, after the Nivards
went away, and how angry my grand
father became when you declined telling
him your secret ? You have not for
gotten that, I expect?”
“ No, Mademoiselle, no !” stammered
Etienne, who seemed to have suddenly
lost his self-possession, and who, though
evidently anxious to find out what she
meant, had only courage to look stealthily
at her.
“ That is right, ” said Margaret. “Now,
here is what I want you to do: To
night, at supper, in presence of my
grandfather, and in presence of the
grand Nivard , I wish you to say certain
words that lam going now to repeat to
you.”
“Certain words?” asked Etienne, some
what disconcerted.
“ Yes ; that is all the service I ask of
you. Are you still resolved?”
“ Certainly.”
“Even if these words should be con
trary to your feelings ? You still pro
mise me. No matter what the conse
quences may be ?”
“No matter. I promise.”
“ See, then, Etienne. A sudden
thought struck me. Perhaps it may seem
droll to you, but 1 think it very fine. I
said to myself : ‘ Perhaps Etienne may
esteem me enough to help me without
affixing any condition.’ Indeed, it will
be a great act of friendship you will
have shown me. I will not fail to be
grateful for it ; and yet—once more—
I” .
(to be continued.)
God Bless You!
How sweetly fall those simple words
Upon the human heart,
When friends, long bound by strongest tics,
Are doomed by fate to part ?
You sadly press the hand of those
Who thus in love caress you,
And soul responsive beats to soul,
In breathing out, “God bless you ! ”
“God bless you! ” all! long mouths ago
I heard the mournful phrase,
When one, whom I in childhood loved,
Went from my dreamy gaze.
Now blinding tears fall thick and fast;
I mourn my long lost treasure,
While echoes of the heart bring back
The farewell prayer, “God bless you !”
The Mother, sending forth her boy,
To scenes untried and new,
Lisps not a studied, stately speech,
Nor murmurs out, “adieu !”
She sadly says, between her sobs,
“Whene’er misfortune press you,
Come to thy Mother, boy, come back;”
Then sadly sighs, “God bless you !”
“God bless you !” more of expressed love
Thau volumes without number,
Reveal we thus our trust in Him,
Whose eyelids never slumber.
I ask, in parting, no long speech,
Drawled out in studied measure;
I only ask the dear old words,
So sweet—so sad—“ God bless you !”
A THRILLING^ADVENTURE.
I was a medical student in Paris, at
the time the strange and startling adven
ture happened, which I am about to
record. Tired with long lectures, and
hard study, I was out one evening for a
walk in the fresh air. It was a pleasant
night in midwinter, and the cold, bracing
air, as it touched my feverish brow, caused
a grateful sensation.
Passing through a rather lonely street,
near the river, I wassurprisad at meeting
a young and pretty girl, (at least so she
appeared in the dim light of a rather indis
tinct street lamp) who carried in her
hand some three or four bouquets, which
she offered for sale.
“Will Monsieur have a bouquet? ” she
said in a sweet, musical tone, holding out
to me a well arranged collection of beau
tiful flowers.
“They are very pretty,” said I, taking
them in my hand, and then, somehow, I
could not help adding, as I fixed my eyes
upon her’s, “and so, I think, are their fair
owner.”
“Monsieur, will buy and assist me? ”
she said.
“Do you really need assistance, Mad
emoiselle ? ”
“Why else should Ibe here at this
hour of the night, Monsieur? ”
“And why here at all? ” quickly re
turned I. “This street is little frequent
ed, and it is about the last in the world I
should have selected for disposing of a
luxury most suited to wealth and
fashion.”
She sighed and reached out her hand
for the bouquet, which I still retained.
“What is your price? ”
“Five francs.”
“A large sum.”
“Monsieur will remember it is winter,
and flowers are not plenty.”
“To aid you, I will purchase,” re
turned I, handing her the requisite silver
coin ; “for though I love flowers, I would
otherwise hardly indulge in the luxury
to-night at such an expeuce.”
She thanked me, and seemed about to
pass on, but hesitated, looked up to me
and said :
“Could Monsieur direct me to the house
of a good physician, who will turn out to
night and sec a patient at a small recom
pense? ”
“Any friend of your’s ill? ”
“My mother! ” with a deep sigh, and
down cast look.
“Where does she reside? ”
“Only a short distance from here.”
“What is the matter with her? ”
She has a high fever for one thing.”
“When was she taken? ”
“She was taken down last night, and
has not left her bed since.”
“Why did you not send for a doctor
at once?”
”We hoped she would soon get better;
and it is so expensive for poor people to
employ a physician.”
“I am myself a medical student, with
considerable experience among the sick
of the hospitals; and if you are disposed
to trust the case to me, I am at your
service without charge,” I rejoined,
already feeling deeply interested in the
fair girl.
“Oh, how shall I thank Monsieur?”
she exclaimed, with clasped hands, and
an upward, grateful look. “Pray, fol
low me, Monsieur le Docteur.”
She turned at once, and moved off at
a rapid pace down the street, toward the
river Seine, in the direction I was walk
ing when we met.
In less than five minutes we had en
tered a wretched quarter among narrow
streets, old, tottering buildings, and
squalid-looking inhabitants, some of
whom seemed to glare at us as we passed
along.
“Is it much further?” inquired I, be
ginning to feel uneasy.
“Only a step Monsieur; it is just here.”
Almost immediately she turned into a
covered passage, which led in back among
habitations that I should never have
voluntarily visited in the broad light of
day. A distant lamp served to make the
gloom visible, till she suddenly stopped,
and opened a door into total darkness.
“Your hand, Monsieur le Docteur,”
she said, at the same time taking it and
leading me forward.
I was tempted to draw back and refuse
to go any further, though I mechanically
followed her.
We now went through a long, narrow
passage, in total darkness, and after two
or three short turns, began to descend a
'flight of creaking, rotten stairs.
“Is it possible you live in a place like
this? ” said I, secretly wishing myself
safely out of it.
“In Paris, beggars cannot be choos
ers,” replied the girl.
“But even in Paris, it is not necessary
for the living to take up their abodes in
sepulchres,” I rejoined, with some asper
ity, being vexed at myself for suffering
my good nature to lead me into a den
from which I might never come out alive.
To this my fair guide deigned no reply.
On reaching the foot of the stairs she
pushed open the door into a small, dimly
lighted room, and I followed her in with
some secret misgivings. There was a
bed in one corner, and on it appeared to
be a human form lying very still.
“I have brought a doctor, mother,”
said the girl, as she closed the door be
hind me. As there was no reply to
this, she turned to me saying :
“Will Monsieur le Docteur please be
seated? I think my mother is asleep.”
“I beg Mademoiselle will bear in mind
that I can only spare a few moments in
this case to-night, as I. have another call
I wish to make immediately,” I returned
feeling very anxious to depart from that
subterranean quarter as quick as possible.
“Monsieur shall not be detained long
by me,” rejoined the girl, passing out of
the room by another door.
I did not sit down, but walked over to
the bed, where the patient was lying very
still—so still indeed that I could not de
tect any breathing. A woman’s cap was
on the head and the end of a sheet con
cealed the face. I ventured to turn this
down carefully, and beheld the eyeless
sockets, and grinning teeth of a human
skull.
I started back in horror, and at the
same moment the door which the girl
had left, was thrown open, and in march
ed, one after the other, four tall human
forms in black gowns and masks. I
knew at once, then, that I was to be
robbed, and probably murdered. I wore
a heavy diamond pin and ring, carried a
very valuable gold watch, and had in
money about rny person, some five hun
dred francs, but not a single weapon of
any kind—resistance being, therefore, out
of the question I felt that my only
chance—if indeed there were a chance—
was to conciliate the ruffians and buy my
self off. With a presence of mind, for
which I still take to myself considerable
credit I said at once:
“I understand it all, gentlemen, and
you will find me a very liberal person to
deal with. There is one thing I value
very highly, because it is the only one
I have, and I cannot replace it—that is
my life. Everything else of mine is at
your service, even beyond what I have
with me.”
They were, unboubtedly, surprised to
hear me speak in that cool, off-handed
manner ; but they marched forward, and
surrounded me before either returned a
word.
“How much have you with you,
then?” inquired one, in a civil way, but
in a low, gruff, tone.
I immediately mentioned the different
articles of value, and exact amount of
money ; “all of w*hich I shall be pleased
to present you with, if one of you will be
kind enough to escort me to the street
above,” I added.
“You said you had more, Monsieur.”
“Yes, gentlemen, I have ten thousand
francs in the Bank of France, and I will
willingly add a check for one-half that
amount.”
“Checks don’t answer our purposes
very well,” said a second voice.
“Then I pledge you my honor that I
will to-morrow draw out five thousand
francs, and pay the amount over to any
person who may approach me with this
bouquet in his hand,” said I, holding out
the flowers I had purchased of the fair
decoy.
“And have him arrested the next
minute, T siq pose.”
“No; on my honor, be shall depart un
harmed and unquestioned, and no other
human being shall be informed of the
transaction for a week, or a month, or a
year.”
“Let us handle what 3*oll have here,”
said the first speaker.
I immediately took off my pin, and
ring, drew out my watch, and placed
them all in his extended hand.
“You make us a present of these,
now ?” he asked.
“Yes, on the conditions that one of you
will escort me to the street above,” I re
plied.
Then they drew off together, scruti
nized the articles by the light of a smoky
lamp, and conversed in low tones. I felt
that they were holding consultation that
involved rny life, and, to speak the truth,
it seemed as if every nerve in me quiver
ed, and it was with difficulty I could
stand.
At length, the principal spokesman
turned to me, and said, in a cool and
methodical manner :
“Monsieur has acted more like a gen
tleman than any other person we ever
had dealings with, and if we could, con
sistent with our business, oblige him, we
would be happy to do so; but, unfortu
nately, we are governed by a rule, which
is a law with us, that ‘dead men do not
tell tales,’ and we think it will not do to
make an exception in this case. We will,
however, in consideration of Monsieur’s
gentlemanly behaviour, be as mild and
lenient as possible in doing our duty, and
grant Monsieur five minutes for saying
his prayers.”
“You have then resolved to murder
me ?” gasped I.
“Monsieur uses a very hard term, but
we will let that pass. You have five
minutes to live by this watch.”
The villain then held my watch to the
light, and I felt, indeed, that my minutes
were numbered, and secretly began to
pray for the salvation of my soul, believ
ing that I could not save my body.
A death like silence now reigned in
that gloomy apartment for some time,
and then one of the ruffians bent down
and lifted a trap door, and from a dark pit
below issued a noisome smell, as it might
be, of putrid bodies. I beheld my intend
ed grave, and shuddered and looked
aspen.
But why stand there and die like a
dog, without a single attempt to escape ?
At the worst, it could be but death, and
there was a bare possibility I might g c . t
away. I fixed my eyes on the door winch
opened on the stairway, and with a singl e
sudden bound, reached it, but found \[
fast locked. Then, as the hands of th o
ruffians seized me with murderous intent
I uttered a wild shriek, the door wa<!
burst in, with a loud crash, and, in a mo
ment, the room was filled with ge ns
d'arnies. I saw that I was saved, and
fainted, and fell.
The four masks, the fair decoy, and
some two or three others conc3rned in
the murderous den, were all secured that
night, and I svbsequently had the
pleasure of giving in my evidence against
them, and seeing them all condemned to
the galleys for life.
The place had lor some time been sus
pected, and the decoy marked. On that
night, a detective had secretly followed
the girl and myself, and after ascertain
ing whither she had conducted me, had
hastened to bring a body of gens d'armts
to the place. The delay of the ruffians in
their murderous design had just been suf
ficient to save me. I scarcely need add
that I never again volunteered to accom
pany a distressed damsel on a secret ad
venture while I remained in Paris.
Slaughter of the Federals Under
Marye’s Heights, Fredericksburg
Wm. Lawley, the special correspondent
of the London Times, visited the battle
field of Fredericksburg after the
He writes thus concerning the scene he
saw there:
Gone, indeed, they were, but in what
fashion. A glance at the long scope be
tween the town of Fredericksburg and the
foot of Marye’s Height, gave the best
idea of the magnitude of the toil which
had been exacted for their passage of the
Rappahannock. A ride along the whole
length of the lines told, also, a sad tale of
slaughter, but when the eye had ouce
rested upon the fatal slope above men
tioned, the memory became fixed upon
the spot; nor, for fifty years to come, will
that scene ever fade from the memory of
those who saw it. There, in every atti
tude of death, lying so close to each other
that you might step from body to body,
lay acres of the Federal dead. It seemed
that most of the faces which lay nearest
to Colonel Waltorws artillery, were of the
well known Milesian type. In one small
garden, not more than half an acre in
size, there were counted one hundred
and fifty corpses I doubt whether in
any battle field of modem times, the dead
have lain so thick and close. By univer
sal consent of those who have seen all the
great battles of this war. nothing like it
haserer been seen before. It is said that
the morning after a victory always breaks
upon naked corpses. It was not so in
this case, but the sole reason was, that the
pickets of both armies swept the slope
with their fire, and that every living
thing which showed upon it was the
target for a hundred miles.
But the fire across the slope was fatal,
not only to men, but also to every other
living thing. Horses, by dozens, were
strewn along the hillside; and, occasion
ally, a dead cow, or a dead hog, lay close
to the silent, and, too often, fearfully
torn and mutilated human bodies, which
everywhere met the view. Such a sight
has rarely been seen by man. It is
doubtful w*hether any living pen could do
justice to its horrors, but it is certain
it would be easy to write more than any
ordinary* reader would care to read. It
is known that, during the night of the
13th and 14th, very many bodies were
carried off and buried by the Federals;
but when the party of Federals detailed
to bury their comrades had completed
their task, it was found that, under
Marye’s Heights, they had buried 1,49*
corpses, and 800 more on the Federal
left. Computing that 300 Federals fell
dead on the field, and, adding six or seven
times that number of wounded, you may
gain an approximate estimate of the Fed
eral loss on the 13th of December. To
this must also be added upwards ol a
thousand prisoners taken by the Conic 1-
erates, and all the stragglers and deserters
who strayed away* from the Federal army
It is incontestible that the 12th of JU
cember will be graven as deep in the
annals of the great Republic, as is the
anniversary of Jena upon the hearts ot
the Prussian people.
Perhaps the coming generation may
possess more courage and virtue than
their fathers, in which event there m
some hope for their self-emancipation at.
some future day ; but there is none for
the present.
Mr. Burlingame says the Chinese Lav e
more books, encyclopedias, pamph ietN
magazines, etc., than any* other peopm-
Their principal encyclopedia embrace
five thousand volumes.
