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,i|V mnr iA 'i v/ • TAKE CARE WHOM YOU TRUST. BY COMPTON READE. CHAPTER XI. It was an agreeable surprise to Adine Sinclair to discover that her foe completely changed his tactics. Instead of persecuting her with intru sive attentions, Horace Blackley devoted him self ostentatiously to Louise Hart, ignoring the presence of the two other ladies. In truth he was thoroughly piqued. The transition from a bad love to a bad hate is easier than analysts of human emotions imagine. This man’s brain was replete with notions of vengeance. An ac tor, however, he determined to conceal his hand. To display love or bate would have been equal ly a false move. His game was entire indiffer ence, and he played it to perfection. 0n arriving at the great hotel in Portland Place, Mr. Blackley, who as a matter of course had all arrangements entrusted to his worldly wisdom, somewhat startled Adine by selecting for her use precisely the same room which she had previously oocupied. Girls have amazing- ly retentive memories about trifles. She had not forgotten the number of the room, nor its furniture, nor indeed the face of the housemaid, who came to attend upon her. It was in the afternoon of the day following, that coming in tired enough after a spell of shopping, she went up in the lift to indulge in the best of London luxuries, a thorough good wash. This same femme de chambre brought her hot water, but with a slightly impudent leer on her plebeian features—an expression so mark ed that it arrested the young lady's atten tion. “ Anything more, miss?” “ No, thank you. ” And Adine prepared for ablution. “ Nothing more, miss ? ” “No, no; nothing, thanks. Much oblig ed. ” But the girl did not seem disposed to leave the room. Then Adine turner round from sheer surprise. The face that met hers was a very evil face. It had a history evidently. It rep resented the annihilation of every better feel- ing by some potent cause. It might be a wreck ed love. It might be vioe. To judge from her coarse physique, the latter supposition appeared to be the more likely. “Last time as you were ’ere you went away without remembering oi me, ’’ she said. Fairly taken aback by an accusation she well recollected to be false, for she had “ tipped ” this very girl, Adine began to fumble in her purse for some silver. “I thought I paid you,” she murmur ed. The girl laughed low. So the young lady ad mitted she had been in'thnt room before. Good indeed. What a joke is simplicity to wicked ness. “Itwaswerry forgetful of you, ” contin ued the housemaid; “ werry. Supposing as I had been dishonourable, and told tales, what then ? ” “Whattales?” cried Adine, growing angry. The girl laughed again- Such a false, hollow laugh it was too. “You know” she replied. “I know?” “To be sure you do. What’s the use of the Divorce Court, and sich like national institu tions, if servants isn’t to ^profit by them ? We keep our heyes open, Miss, let me tell you.” Adine shivered at the ideas, suggested by the low creature's words. They had their meaning, but she refused to perceive it- “I again demand, what is the reason you talk to me in this extraordinary way 7' she said. “If you want money, I will pay you whatever your charge is.” Adine knew that attendance was an item in the bill, but she felt it wiser to affect ignorance. She was weak enough to imagine, a small bribe would eff t: illy settle this petty annoyance. Bat the " - face soon undeceived her. “You’v- got perhaps a fiver, or at most, a ten ner in yo. - purse. What’s that, I should like to know ? That wouldn’t pay off such a score. However, as I said, I’m honorable. That’s what I am.” “I don’t understand you,” answered Adine very coldly. Her face had changed to ashen. Her little hand trembled. “Nor I don’t understand this ’ere. Mr. and Miss Smith comes to a ’otel, and engages adjoin ing rooms, sister and brother like. Ha, ha!” Her tone was very irritating. “What business i6 that of yours ?” cried Adine, her pale features suddenly flashing crimson. “How do you know that the—the gentleman isn’t my broth er?” “For two reasons. First, that Miss Smith’s linen is marked “Sinclair.” Secondly, Mr. Smith's linen is marked “Blackley.” That’s why. If you want another reason, you shall have it, Miss.” Adine was silent. Her heart, as the saying is, was in her mouth. Then the girl came closer, and whispered mysterously, “You are not Miss Smith, and he is not Mr. Smith, because—he told me so.” At once Adine appreciated the situation. This was the underhand work of Horace Blackly. He had secured a confederate. What for? To frighten her ? To injure her? She could not guess. However, ner course was plain. This girl must be dealt with, and that, too, promptly. She at once took refuge behind her own innocence. “Oh! Mr. Blackley has been in communica tion with you, has he? Very well then; I con clude he explained how that, for reasons of our own, we were traveling under an assumed name. That will do. You may go.” Plucky, Miss Adine, of you! Yet hardly con ciliatory of a foe. The girl retreated a step, observing in a tone almost of banter, “Shall you require anything more, miss?” “No” replied Adine, firmly; “nothing. Stop though,” she added, “what is your name ?” “Ask Mr. Blackley,” responded the girl, slam ming the door in her face. Adine turned to the glass to behold her coun tenance suffuse with blushes. Indeed, indig nation was the uppermost feeling in her mind. Solitude, however, is apt to calm much of such effervescence, and the result of a few moment’s reflection upon her position, was a flood of tears—girlhood’s best safety-valve. She was endeavoring to eradicate traces of such emotion, by means of cold water and oth er accessories of the toilette, when Louise Hart announced, through the keyhole, that Mr. Lov ett was waiting for her, in the drawing-room below. This good news was more effective than arti ficials, simple or complex. Her pretty face was wreathed in smiles as she ran down the inter minable staircase to meet him. Had these lovers belonged to a different rank of life, they would have gone through the natu- ralesque process of kissing. So overjoyed was Adine at his arrival, that it is quite possible she would have felt rather proud than angry, had he saluted her before the company assem bled in the great sitting-room of the Langham. To speak the truth, however, Mr. Lovett, if such an idea ever entered his head, was much too shy to put it into execution. On the con trary, he contented himself with looking fool ishly overhappy, as he pressed her little white hand in a manner quite as demonstrative as the sonorous of kisses. So engaged was she in imbibing the tender passion, which beamed from his eyes, that she quite failed to perceive the presence of little Ralph, who was standing by his patron, with a very pallid face and a coat buttoned to the chin, although it was warm enough weather. Nature, by a strange Nemesis, had satisfacto rily cheated the Dean and the bntcher. The boy had burst a bloodvessel, and Mr. Lovett in consequence, under medical advice, deter mined at once to remove him from the raw cli mate of Blankton. Hence he had brought the boy to London to place him with an old musi cal friend, whose position in the profession, was, in itself,a recommendation for his pupil. Adine received the sick boy with warmth, and the trio was soon seated at one of the cosy tables of the great dining-room, discussing sweetbreads a la jardiniere, and the Langham Liebefrautn- tnilch,* drink much to be recommended, either neat, or blended with real seltzer. It was melancholy to observe the change in young Ralph. Adine watched him with fur tive interest, and her admiration for her future husband multiplied not a little, as she realized what a true friend ho had been to a helpless child of art. It quite rejoiced her heart to think that they were about to sacrifice a small slice of their first year’s income, in aiding one 60 meritorious as this youth, with his earnest artist face and strangely iustrious eye; one, too, so obviously grateful; one who seemed to be worthy of honest friendship. “1 hope,” faltered the boy with emotion, “I hepe that I shall live to repay your great kind ness.” A sentiment born more of heartfelt gratitude than of petty pride; one of nature’s gentlemen, he knew how to accept the greatest favour with the greatest grace. They in return wished him not merely music but life, and spoke all the kind words which flow with such spontaneous beauty from bright fresh souls—souls which have not as yet been trampled under foot of man, or compelled to bite the dust of debt and degradation. After all, they are happiest, who never learn the folly of giving. XII. CHAPTER Theodore Lovett came to town no longer Minor Canon, but Vicar, and he had already discovered that honour is oostly. The Bishop’s registrar—or rather deputy registrar, for the actual holder ef that sinecure spent most of its emoluments in a game popular in Germany, the issues of which are determined by the spinning of a ball—the Bishop’s deputy registrar then had picked his pocket of almost every available coin. Canon Grabbe had not vouchsafed to ex tract dilapidation money, and arrears of minor canonry were not yet available. In short he began life hard up. He had to pay for young Ralph. Some one must purchase Adine a trousseau, and that some one was himself. Then in prospectu loomed the wedding-tour, furniture and fixtures, to say nothing of a substitute at Mudflat during his absence. Verily the laity, who talked balderdash about “ fat livings,” have mighty little idea how miserably poor the aver age incumbent is. Now, had Theodore Lovett acted wisely, he would have saved every expense, and strove hard to crawl before attempting to walk. He was, however, foolish and inexperienced. From motives of false delicacy he not only concealed pecuniary difficulty from Adine, but he in dulged her every fancy in a way which to his heart was luxury, to his conscience rather the reverse. For the first time in life the agony of money raising assailed him. His prospective and proximate liabilities might be reckoned at about five hundred pounds, his resources dueatabout one-fifih ol that sum. If he borrowed less man he required—say three hundred pounds—even in that case, he would start encumbered by a mill stone. Since the day when he paid his few University debts by sale of the one reversion he had ever been entitled to, the world and Theodore Lovett had kept on square terms. In short he did not owe his neighbour one stiver. The minor canonry had been poor pay, but its holder had marched about manfully in old hats and shabby coats. To him the flavour of vin tage juice was forgotten. A few days in town for the Academy, and the Monday Popular Con certs, or for a Handel Festival or an amateur performance made up the recreation of a whole year. If he had been simply stopped from saving money, he had avoided the danger of bills. He could appreciate the luxury of wear ing a coat and eating a dinner which he had paid for—out of his own purse. Mrs. Chowner, a w >rldly-wise woman, had selected for their temporary abode an hotel which of all others gives the public the most ample accommodation and comfort at the most moderate rate. Yet the reasonable charges of that establishment rose so far above the country clergyman’s idea of what his own personal ex penditure ought to be as to make him wince. He paid, but he failed to look pleasant. There was indeed a hole in his purse. He had begun to spend. There were so many nice things purchaseable in the metropolis—this too was such a good opportunity for selecting a variety of necessaries and luxuries—above all, Adine possessed such an inexhaustible fund of sug gestiveness, and appeared so thoroughly over joyed at each fresh act of expenditure, that he could not economize. No wonder, then, that after a comparatively brief experience of Regent and Oxford Streets, impecuniusity began to stare the poor man in the face. He would have borrowed of his old friend Chowner had that worthy limb of the law been on the spot To ask his friend’s wife for a loan was in bis mind not exactly honour able, although he knew that Mrs. Chowner’s pocket contained many notes, which she would readily have advanced to him. He had no bankers to draw upon, nor solicitor to advise. There were one or two old University friends about London, but then pride interfered. The lapse of years had relaxed the ties of old social intimacy. Muggins, who was wont in old days to slap his back as he styled him “ dear old boy ”—Muggins the prosperous man always met him now clad with the steel armour of society. Muggins had thousands a year, and obviously despised the chum of his youth. He could not ask a favour of such an iceberg. Imagination, therefore, judgment, and his other mental faculties kept terming themselves into a committee of ways and means. It is not pleasant in middle life to discover, that had you spent your past in the retail of such articles as gin, tape, or coals you would have had enough and to spare, but that having devoted your en ergies to less material arrangements you are behind the world. There is in truth nothing so utterly humiliating as the absence of money from your command. A man with an empty pocket feels a criminal—ay, and, in the eyes of an enlightened civilization, is one. At last to his tortured brain it occurred that he might obtain at all events a temporary advance by means of some of those amiable personages who advertise everywhere that they will advance any sum to anybody with or without security. Thus he would be enabled to affoed Adine a trousseau which should bear comparison with the magnificent goods already purchased by Miss Hart to cover her not very prepossessing self. He might perchance have to pay heavy interest; still the wedding was impending, and necessity knows no law—certainly not that of prudence. . . .. , At breakfast he announcod his intention of leaving Adine to Miss Hart’s companionship . -i . l i :i.u l!ilv nn im- look was one of displeasure, for Miss Hart’s meant Mr. Blackley’s society. “Going into the city, are you?” enquired that individual, who was endeavoring to make him self excessively agreeable to Mrs. Chowner, a lady capable of accepting toadyism with satisfac tion. “Going into the city ? Yes. So am I. We’ll go together.” Adine’s frown relaxing at immunity from a disagreeable presence, Mr. Lovett acquiesced in this proposal, and within half an hour the two clergymen were seated iu a Metropolitan first- class carriage, inhaling the unpleasant gases of subterranean London tete-a-tete. Mr. Blackley enquired casually where Mr. Lovett was going. Mr. Lovett, of course, having a guilty con science, looked exceedingly foolish, and replied vaguely that he didn’t quite know. Mr. Blackley responded that being the son of a city magnate he was well acquainted with every inch of that central region dedicated by national piety to Flutus. Mr. Lovett in turn endeavored to shield him self behind an indefinite statement that he was bound for the neighborhood of the bank. Mr. Blackley—his curiosity aroused—enquired “money?” Mr. Lovett, not wishing to be confidential, opined that his business was on a money matter. Mr. Blackley at once affected an appearance of friendliness. He said that iC he could ad vise in any respect he should'inSvery happy; he was conscious that they were ’both sailing in the same boat for the port of matrimonial felicity; hence that he felt for many reasons personally interested in one whom he would call his old college friend. This bait took. Theodore Lovett, delighted by the warmth of his quasi-friend’s sentiments, reciprocated them with hand and voice. Then he opened his heart at once, -evealing unreserv edly the design of his journey cityward. “Phew!” whistled Horace Blackley. “Why, man, you must be insane !” “Why?” gasped the innocent man. “Because, my dear fellow, you would be in fallibly swindled. It stands to reason. It wouldn’t pay any human being to lend money without security—that is, of course, with only half a chance of repayment.” There was no arguing against such sound logic. “How much do you want—a hundred or so?” “I could manage perhaps Mvith about three hundred pounds,” replied Mr. Lovett, not a lit tle amazed at the turn the conversation was as suming. L* “Three hundred. Hum. >*ibu require three hundred pounds —repayable when?” “Oh, in a reasonable time. Say three years.” “Exactly. Three hundred for three years.” Mr. Blackley looked as if the mountain was in labor. “It is a large sum,” remarked the other. “A large sum,” repeated Mr. Blackley. “A large sum. Too heavy for a country parson to repay without an effort. Well, I—I .” But he paused for his words seemed to stick in his throat. At last the inward struggle was over. The mountain brought forth something more impor tant than a mouse. _ *•. “I’ll lend you the coin you squire.” “My dear fellow “Stop. Nothing demonstrative, if you please, Lovett. I abhor that sort of thing. It is un comfortable for both parties.” And he positive ly escaped from the eager grip of gratitude. “But, Blackley, old boy, believe me ” * Quite so. I believe in your freehold of Mud- fiat. What interest do you propose?” “I—I thought five per conijk stammered Mr. --** Mr. Blackley laughed—consifmedly. “All right,” he said. “Evidently you must have the money. I really could make you pay through the nose, but I won’t. However, come with me to the “Shylark” insurance company. We will talk to the actuary and insure your life as a necessary preliminary.” At luncheon Theodore met Adine with a very beaming smile. He informed her briefly that she must lose no time in purchasing a suitable trousseau. “I thought,” she said, “that you were rather cramped tor money, and in fact I have asked Mrs. Chowner to advance me what I require.” These two people were so isolated as to be very much like a married couple before mar riage. At all events they recognised a unity of purse. “I have ample funds,” he replied, perhaps proudly. (TO BE CONTINUED.) “ Do I know you ! Oh,'yes ; I know you ; and although I have not seen you for seven months, l must have been blind, awhile ago, that I did not recognize your charming face as soon as you en tered the office. But I see that you do not remem ber me. Have you forgotten the fete at Tivoli, and the danger from which my friend was fortun ate enough to rescue you ? ” “ Was it you who accompanied Mr. Valreas?” “ Yes, mademoiselle, and I had the good for tune, too, to be of some service to a lady as beau tiful as Juno herself. May I dare ask you what has become of her ? ” “ She is perfectly well, sir. But, prav, give me the information I ask. Moments are precious— somebody might come.” “You are right, mademoiselle; I will show you myself to the room of the terne see.” And the lottery man—who was none other than the poetic Tamerlan—locked the door of his office. “ We cannot be too cautious,” said he ; “ since our political troubles have forced us to so abject a situation, we must endeavor to baffle our perse cutors.” He opened a closet, concealed in the wall, and showed an opening through which a common-sized person could pass. “This is the way, mademoiselle; you will find there a few steps which will lead you to the room of the terne sec. You will rap four times, with a short interval between the second and third. Our friend will open the door, and when the divinity, who deigns to visit him, shall wish to return to CHAPTER XCV. The poor girl had no idea that this consent was only a generous subterfuge that might save Georges Cadoudal, but not Charles Valreas. “It is time for me to go,” said Gabrielle, “Day after to-morrow I hope to bring you here the pass port you need.” “Not here,” said Saint Victor, “for who knows if I can stay here for the next two hours, but at this time day after to morrow I shall be in the garden of tne Tuileries, under the large horse- chestnut on the right of the grand avenue.” “I will go there, and if l do not see you, then I will come here. Show me how to go out of this house.” When the young girl was gone Saint Victor came to Tamerlan’s office, and taking from under the desk, an ample overcoat, an old hat, a cane and some large blue spectacles, he went towards the door. “Are you going far?” asked Tamerlan. “Yes, I am going to see Georges.” “Take care. There is a long distance from here to Quai Chaillot.” “Don’t be uneasy. Keep your seat at your desk, so lhat, if anyone come they find you seem ingly busy with your books. Wiio was here just now ?” “Oh ! a poor knife-grinder, who was fool enough to pay three francs for a terne, which he will lose.” Saint Victor had traversed Mauberet place when he saw a knife grimier seated on a stone at the cor- Olympus, he will tell her what she has to do to go ner of a house. “This is probably the fellow who out of the house.” He quitted Gabrielle, and she arrived at the door, tapped four times, according to instructions “ Come iu,” said a voice, whose tones made her sigh. She opened, and saw Valreas writing at a little table. He recognized her instantly, stared at her a moment, as if doubting his senses, and then ran towards her with open arms: “You here!” he exclaimed—“you, whom 1 almost despaired of ever seeing again ? ” “ I, too,” said Gabrielle, “ have almost des paired ; I believed you dead—for—since that ter rible night, you—have forgotten me.” “ Forgotten you! Ah, I would to-day be far away from France had I forgotten you ! It is only because I wanted to see you again that I persisted in a struggle which is now almost useless.” “ You say that you wanted to see me. Why, you have not even let me know you are living ! ” “ What could I do ? You live at the Tuileries— a place that I mu3t shun—but perhaps you do not know that all the police are after me.” “ I know all. But could yoa not write? I would have come as I do to day.” The young ehouan took her by the hand and led her to the unique arm-chair in the room. They both remained silent for a moment; then Ga brielle said: “ Charles, you must lea e France.” “ You know that it is now impossible,” said he, softly. “ You must.” “ Leaving France, Gabrielle, is to lose you for ever.” “ Who knows that I—will not go to join you? ” “ Y T ou would do that? You would renounce the brilliant life in store for you at the court of the future emperor ? You would leave your brother? ” “ Listen to me, Charles—lisien to what you may call my dreams—but they are dreams for the real ization of which I would willingly die. Go to London, and I swear that l will go to join you there. When I am your wile, my brother will not refuse to ask the pardon of my husband from his general, then emperor. When the political trou- Lies are over, vut will come back Iif Paris.'’ “Dreams, indeed, Gabrielle.' lam not one of those whom Bonaparte will pardon.” “ Why ? ” she asked. “ Because 1 played too important a part iu the conspiracy. When he shall be on the throne, he will want to stay there, and to accomplish this, he will crush under liis feet the last of his oppo nents.” “ You will not be his enemy any more: you shall be a royalist, fathful to his principles, but a stranger to conspiracy of any sort; and when 1 shall throw myself at the feet of Mine. Joseph ine—always so kind to me—I am sure she will not reject my prayer. Sue is a royalist, too. Was she not Marquise de Beauharnais before being the wife’ot Bonaparte ? ” THE GHOST whilst he made a pilgrimage to the City on im portant business. Adine stared. Oa this point she was not in liis confidence. Perhaps her —or the—. MALMAIS ON. AN EPISODE OF FRENCH HISTORY Translated from the French for the Sunnt South BT CHARLES GAXLMABD. [Most of the characters in this story are net fictitious, bat real personages who took conspicnons parte In some of the most important events which occurred daring the rebellion of the West of France—called Chouannerie.] Gabrielle kissed the hands of the woman who had revived her hopes, and, in her hurry to leave, she almost knocked down a man who was standing near the door. That man was the knife-grinder whom she had already met twice. She did not pay any attention to that man, for she was now all joy, since she was going to meet Saint-Victor. Her heart throbbed wildly when she perceived the old house that sheltered Valreas against the vigilant eyes of the police. The lottery-office, where the government used to sell hopes that were seldom realised, was besieged at a certain hour by a crowd of, poor devils com ing there to exchange part of their daily bread for a ticket. But at that time 'of the day, men and women were at work, and the street was al most deserted. Seeing that the office-keeper was alone, Ga brielle entered and closed the door behind her. The man who kept the office had his head on his book, seemingly asleep. As she entered, he looked at her and inquired: “ What can I do for you, charming lady ? Shall I have the pleasure of putting your name in my book for a number?” And as he did not receive any answer, he continued: “Is it, then, several numbers that you wish ? I have precisely three of them here that haven't come out within the last three years: 3, the Graces; 9, the Muses; and 19, the number of your summers.” The young lady, astounded by this loquacity, remained silent. ‘ Well,” continued the indefatigable talker, “ I see that you want more of them yet; you are right, madame—or mademoiselle—and if—” • Sir,” interrupted Gabrielle, “ I wish to know if I could take 93 and 94 ? ” At that question, the man, who had, until then, assumed a bent attitude, raised himself erect, and Gabrielle, looking at his pale face,, thought she had already seen him somewhere. ‘Then,” she said, “ehow me to the room of the terne see.” This time the man jumped to his feet, as if im pelled by a spring, and exclaimed : “ Is it you, indeed, mademoiselle?” “ Do you know me, sir ? ” CHAPTER XOIV. Saint-Victor was listening with deep emotion to Gabrielle’s words; and although he did not believe in her illusions, still he was transported at the idea of the blissful future she depicted. “You speak of leaving France,” he said. “Don’t you know that Paris is surrounded as a besieged city ; tnat no one can pass the gate but with a passport signed by the Grand Judge himself.” “ I know it.” “And still you hope? But this very house where I found a shelter may be invaded at any moment by the police. You succeeded in getting the pass-word yourself; others may get it, too.” “ I got it by calling on the only person who could give it to me—the lady at whose house you brought me after saving my life at Tivoli.” “ Louise Maneheu 1 ’ “ I did not know either her name or residence ; but hearing of the proscription law, I started without any definite plan. God helped me, for I met the woman I was seeking; she believed me when I told her I loved you and wanted to save you. Now let me tell you how I can save you. The passport is indispensable; that passport I shall bring to you.” “ You, Gabrielle ?” “ Yes; I shall have it to-morrow.” “ How can you obtain it ?” “ 1 will ask my brother. I will tell him it is for you. You do not know my brother; he re members that you have saved his life, and he knows that I love you.” “Does he approve that love? would he ever con sent to our—” “Our union—I cannot hope that—as long as politic affairs will divide our unfortunate coun try—but I am sure he will get me the passport.” Gabrielle knew too well that to obtain that pass port she should be obliged to consent to the mar riage with I’erlier, but she was determined to sac rifice even her love to save her lover. ‘Gabrielle, the signature of your brother cannot open for me the gates of Paris, no matter how in timate he may be with Bonaparte.” “Is it indispensable to put your name on the passport?” “Otherwise it would be a blank pass, and those must be now forbidden upon the severest pen alty.” I am certain that they give such passes. Fouche's agents and the gemdarmes d elite circulate freely in and out. They must have a certain pa per, word or sign that I shall get. So you accept and promise me to use the passport if I bring it to you?” Saint Victor became grave, and said slowly : “ I cannot abandon my friends who for the last six months have shared my dangers.” Do you prefer to die with them rather than to live for me?” He Cid not answer. A thought had struok him. If the passport had no name ou it, Cadoudal could use it; aud if he could only save his General, at the cost of his life, Saint Victor would be too happy. “I accept,’’ said he softly. “/U»! uow I am sure you love me,” exclaimed Gabrielle. has been to the lottery office,” he thought; “but what can he expect to do iu such a quarter of Paris ? A certain suspicion passed through his mind, but the man did not seem to pay any attention to him, so he went on his way, slowly as an old man who could hardly walk. It took him a loag time to pass through the different streets that led him towards the river. As he turned on the quai he perceived the knife-grinder at about fifty steps behind him. Oh ! oh !” thought Saint Victor, “ this is a man I meet very often, and I will watch him. I’ll soon find out if he is or is not a spy.” At Saint Michal’s bridge, the knife grinder was yet at the same distance behind him. Saint Vic tor then walked under a porch for protection against the rain. He soon saw that the other man was seeking a shelter on the other side of the street. The ehouan s suspicion was soon very strong, but to be sure, he was not mistaken, he concluded to wait for a moment, when the rain should fall abundantly, and then leave his shelter. “ If he follows me,” thought he, then he is cer tainly after me.” He did not wait long; a thick black cloud poured a deluge of half-thawed snow, aud Saint Victor took to the street and went towards the Seine. I When he had walked about two hundred yards, he looked behind him, just in time to see the knife- grinder turning the corner of the street in the same direction. “Well!” muttered Saint Victor, between hi9 teeth, “ he is decidedly an agent of Fouche, and it is a good thing i found him out.” The young ehonan had a very lucid mind. Af ter asking himself why this detective did not ar rest him immediately, he made ihis reasoning to himself. “This man evidently knows me, and probably knows where to find me; but he is thinking I am going to a friend’s—perhaps to Cadoudal’s—and he hopes to capture several of us. But how to get rid of him ? With a rapidity of conception acquired in a life of civil war, he combined a plan that he put im mediately into execution. Ou his left he had the old convent of Theatins, not a door openfed on that side; on his right was the river, considerably swelled by the winter rains, aud offeriug a capital chance to be drowned; before him, was the quai d’Orsay, where, should he try to run, a dozen policemen would have arrested him before he could go twenty yards. Aud still he thought his plan would prove successful. At a small distance along the wharf was the Vigter bath establishment. Saint-Victor turned his head, and discovered the detective at a goodly distance. “ All right,” said he to himself; “I shall have time-” Theu cutting the street diagona’ly, he male straight for the bath establishment. Seeing this, the knife-grinder hastened his steps to cut him off from the river. “ Too late,” muttered Saint-Victor. “With his grindstone on his back and all his accoutrements, that man cannot enter the boat without losing time in parleying, and then I am safe.” Enteriug the boat, Saint-Victor threw five francs on the office desk, telling the clerk: “ If I want anything 1 will ring the bell.” Then going into one of the sm til rooms he lock ed the door inside. He was hardly there before he heard loud talk ing in the office. “ I tell you, you shall not enter ; we have no knife to grind here.” “ I am not a knife-grinder; I am an agent of Fouche, and I order you to open this room to me,” pointing to the room where Saint-Victor had taken refuge. “ That room ? There is an old man in it, and I shall prevent your disturbing him. We don’t need any policemen here, nohow.” “ But, stupid fellow, your old man is no less than a ehouan, an accomplice of Cadoudal; and by sheltering him you run the risk of five years in the penitentiary. Didn’t you read the bills posted all over Paris ?” “ If I were sure of that,” murmured the clerk, reflectively. “ Open the door for me, and you shall be satis fied of it, and receive one hundred francs besides.” “This is tempting, but I have not the key, and it is locked inside.” “ Help me to break it open.” (to bb continubd.) God’s Sparrows. A good woman, searching oat the children of want one cold day last winter, tried to open a door in the third story of a wretched house, when Bhe heard a little voice say, “ Pall the string np high; pull the string up high.” She looked np and saw a string, which on being palled lifted a latch, and she opened the door upon two little half-naked children all alone. Very cold and pitiful they looked. “ Do yoa take care of yourselves, little ones ? ” asked the good woman. “God takes care of us,” said the oldest. “And are'nt you very cold? no fire on a day like this! ” “ Oh, when we are very col& we creep under the quilt, and I put my arm round Tommy, and Tommy puts his arm round me, and we say, * Now I lay me; then we get warm;" said the lit tle girl. “And what have yon to eat? ” “When granny comes home she fetches ns something. Granny says God has got enough. Granny calls as God’s sparrows; and we say, ‘Our Father’and ‘daily bread’every day. God is our Father.” Tears came iuto the good woman’s eyes. She had a mistrusting spirit herself; bnt those two little “ sparrows,” perched in that cold npper chamber, taught her a sweet lesson of faith and trust she will never forget And have you, children, who have almost everything else, this sweet spirit of contentment? Our heavenly Father says, “ Be content with such things as ye have."