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2 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.