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1852.] THE DYING MOTHER’S CON FESSION. [Continued from our last..] The new acquaintance thus cavalierly saluted however, showed himself not only fully satisfied with the terms of his wel come, but resolved to improve into friendliness his acquaintanceship with the good matron of St. Medard, by every possible art and concession. lie laid aside his self-conceit—he laid aside his dandyism. Rising superior to the supe riority he had felt or affected over Gros Pierre and Jean-Marie, he accepted, with out any overstrained expressions of gra titude, the homely fare set before him; and having at length persuaded the hos pitable widow to take her place at the board, and share the matchless bottle of old Medoc brought forward by Manon at her kinswoman’s suggestion from the most recondite hoard of her cellar, which on being uncorked, sent forth a musky fragrance as of some choice flower-gar den, he eventually succeeded in dispell ing from her goodly face every shadow 7 of mistrust, and even in qualifying the gloom of its shades of sorrow. As evening closed in, Manon saw fit to light the Veillte lamp in honor of their unexpected visiter; while Captain R , with growing familiarity,drew the w idow’s wickerchair tow aids the hearth. The doors were barred against intrusion; the farm lad despatched to the beach, had already brought back news that the boatmen, profiting by their employer’s permission, had found shelter for themselves for the night at the mill of II net; and the trio at the fireside of St. Medard were conse quently free to enjoy the warmth and comfort of the salle. without any draw back from the dreariness of the night and the howling winds against the case ment. And they did enjoy it; and already be gan to interchange familiar words and phrases, as if unconsciously adopting each ottier as friends. The stranger was no longer a stranger. Whatever motive, ! whether a love of the picturesque, or a tender reminiscence of the prettiness and liveliness of the waiting maid of the Governor’s daughter, had brought him to the Farm, he now sojourned there as one w ho was not the less welcome for coming unbidden. ‘Your friend, Monsieur de St. Sauveur, appears to have been a martyr to political revolutions?’ —he observed, alter having listened with great patience to Madame Le Tellier’s diffuse and repeated la mentatious over the loss of her Norman patron. ‘And yet I do not call to mind his name as connected with any particular party, or any great public catastrophe ?’ ‘How should you ?’ —replied the old lady briskly. ‘St. Sauveur was the name SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE. borne by the family during their volun tary exile. It does not follow that my friends w'ere not recognized under a more illustrious designation in their native country.’ ‘Aha?’ cried Manon, instinctively lav ing down her knitting pins, and toss ing back the ringlets from her open forehead, on this hint of a secret to be unfolded. ‘Yet every one at St. Medard’— ‘Every one was scarcely likely to be admitted into their confidence,’ inter rupted the widow pettishly. ‘The good Marquis chose his confidants as his own clear judgement suggested; nor did he, 1 trust, find cause to regret its sug gestions.’ ‘He was in fact, then, a very great man, and living incog, at the Chateau ?’ said Capt. R , interrogatively. ‘He w 7 as living under an assumed name, Sir,’ replied la Maman; ‘nor should 1 ad in it so much, but that, although no public cause for concealment now exists, I am satisfied it would be impossible for you to obtain a clew to his real title and posi tion in life. For my own part, ignorant as I am of the very nature of what you are pleased to term political revolutions, I cannot presume to decide upon Mon sieur de St. Sauveur’s personal or public consequence : but this 1 know, that it, by a ‘great man,’ you mean a man of mighty purposes, of great and good principles, a man, above all, holding control over his own passions, and able to carve out for himself the duty path of his own ca reer, — s uch a one was the friend whom I have lost! Yes! he was a great man !’ — repeated the widow 7 , after some moment’s meditation; ‘few greater, —few capable of such sacrifices, —such moral heroism. The idols he made for himself were not of common dust; and who ever worshipped with half so much piety of affection ? God bless him, —God rest him! —He is now reaping his great reward among the elect of the children of God !’— ‘You speak with considerable enthusi asm,’ observed R , rising from the Lit de Veille , on which he had inadver tently seated himself. ‘Recollect, how ever, that I know nothing of the St. Sau veur family, and am forced to accept their virtues upon trust.’ ‘Listen then!’ resumed Madame Le Tellier. ‘Take the seat again which you have just quitted, and for once I will play the gossip; in order that, although our Veillee is impossible, you may not quit the island without imbibing some notion of its fashions. To you, who have no in terest in penetrating the secret of my friends, I may venture to confide a mys tery, such as 1 should be loth to breathe in the ears of my neighbours here of the hamlet!’ — 1 ‘A mystery which regards the young ladies, Sophie, Antoinette, and Claire?’ cried Manon, clapping her hands with the excitement of the moment. ‘Dear aunt! you will surely allow me to sit up and profit by the Veiltte? —You well know that you can have conlidence in my discretion !’ ‘Not much in your discretion, my poor child,’ said her kinswoman, kindly tap ping the cheek of the girlish face that presented itself, as Manon knelt anxious ly yet playfully at her feet; ‘but not a little in your good will; and still more,’ she added with a good humoured smile, ‘in the impossibility of your turning to mischievous account the information I am about to impart. The very name of my friends is undreamed of in Guernsey; even that under which it was their plea sure to be known, will be heard here no more. Two of the young ladies are on the eve of honourable marriage; the third, my pretty Antoinette, is already a wife and a mother; and when the grey head of old Victorine Le Tellier shall be laid in the grave, with her will rest the secret ot their probation!’ ‘Except such a portion of their history as you have promised to communicate V cried Captain R , bent upon enticing his companions into stirring up to bear him company, rather than curious to learn the promised particulars. ‘My promise will cost me a pang or two!’ was the old lady’s reply. ‘Manon, lay down another log upon the hearth, and bring down the lamp a link. The room looks cheerless, or my eyes are dimmer than usual. And set upon the fire a skillet of Bordeaux, with a stick of cinnamon, and the zest of otie of our own citrons, —for the English Captain will w r ant a sleeping draught to make him turn a deaf ear to the whistling of the north-wester in our chimneys. So ! now be seated and quiet,’ continued Ma dame Le Tellier, evidently prolonging her directions and injunctions, so as to postpone the commencement of her task, and subdue the emotions which a mere recurrence to the name of St. Sauveur had sufficed to draw’ forth. ‘lt was six years ago, and summer time.’ said she, commencing at last abruptly, ‘when a French family came to settle at the Chateau of St. Medard; and no sooner did I set eyes upon them than 1 felt that they ought to come with the summer —with the butterflies —with the roses —with all things that are beau tiful in nature; for more beautiful than all these were the three daughters of Monsieur de St. Sauveur! Never shall I forget their appearance as they stood, the very evening after their arrival at the Chateu, hand in hand at my garden gate, with the sunshine streaming upon their flowing curls; and not all its brightness, nor all the brightness of the flowers which 23 265