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1852.] THE DYING MOTHER’S CON FESSION. [Concluded from our lat..] ‘ ’Tvvas a strange thing, too, that, dear ly as her children loved her, the sight of the Marchioness’s settled melancholy never seemed to affect their spirits, un less when her pretence warned them to moderate their joyous tones within hear ing of the sufferer. They had grown up with the sight of her sorrow ever before their eyes. Ihey could not figure their mother to themselves otherwise that as a suffering saint. It was in that gui-e they understood and loved her; while they loved each other with all the buoy ant earnestness* j mi -hrea fair creatures, Sir, were never apart.— One place of rest sufficed them; they knelt i side by side for their evening prayers; and when the morning sun beamed upon them again, it was to each other that then first exclamations of joy and love were fervently addressed. Sophie would have dedicated the whole worship of her heart ( to Claire, but that there was an Antoin ette in the world, and Antoinette would j have conceived it impossible to love any thing but Sophie, had not the soft blue eyes ofCiaire recalled her to the resem blance of an object equally beloved. ‘1 here was but one heart, one soul, one hope, one consciousness, among the three. Hiey had no need to consult each other—to confide— to argue -.—they were one ! one doating child to their poor mother one duteous and pious daughter to the father they revered. To liveapart would have been impossible to either of the three; for as yet no pulse of womanhood was stirring in their innocent heajt.s, to suggest the existence ot other ties, or the future duties of the wde and mother. , ‘But all this was drawing to a close, continued old Victorine, wiping her eyes; and I was the only person who saw that a catastrophe was at hand ! Ever} day, when I visited the Chateau, I perceived that the sick lady was feebler and feebler than the day precedin'.;. She no longer quitted the house; she could scarcely turn un her bed of misery without assistance; the only food she tasted was tisane ot capillaire and other simple febrifuges, prepared by my hand. Yet she never murmured. Her answer was always ‘Better’ in reply to the anxious inquiries of her children. And they believed her ! Affection is so sanguine in its hopes and confidence. ‘Nevertheless, as winter approached, the Marquis began to discern symptoms of an alarming change; and much against the desire of the invalid, a physician was fetched from St. Peter’s Port to issue> his mandate upon her case. But mandate there was none to issue. The gentleman was compelled to avow that, although SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZRTTY. her broken constitution proclaimed his patient’s condition to be hopeless, he could guess nothing of the sources of her disorder. He knew that she must die—that was all—and if every learned man were as honest, it is, perhaps, the utmost Doctors have to unfold. But guess, Sir, only guess the change which those few words wrought in the family at the Chateau ! The first time I beheld the Marquis after the departure of the physician, he looked as if he had been turned into a statue of stone. There was something in the long enduring sickness of his lady which he had seemed to reverence, as though it were the probation of a martyr, and now tTiat’ that he knew the dust he loved was with the dust about to mingle,—he began to reproach himself that he had not earlier applied to human aid in her behalf. It was not till she was on the eveofenter ing into the joy of her Lord, and putting on immortality, that her husband seemed to recollect she was born of woman— a mere child of clay, like others of the earth ! ‘1 will pass over that season of afflic tion !’ faltered Madame de Tellier. ‘Dur in<r the gradual decay of the sufferer, it appeared to me a strange but evident thing, that the poor, meek, humble in valid, so long prepared for the worsre, and so well prepared by the exercise of every Christian virtue, shrank from the final consummation ! At times, indeed, a heavenly fervor was in her uplifted eyes, as if Hope still existed for her on high.* But immediately afterwards, a shudder would come over her wasted frame, as though her glance had suddenly fallen upon some dark abyss, still inter vening between herself and eternal life. Deep°deep sighs would burst from her labouring breast when she found, or fancied herself alone; and often when I greeted her, of mornings, with gratula tion that she had rested well, she vyould answer, in a broken voice, ‘God is too good to me !—He is leading me with a tender hand towards the darkest of my trials. Pray for me, good Victorine;— dear Victorine, pray for me,— that his upholding strength may not be with drawn when my need is the sorest. Alas, alas ! Sir that was a heavy, heavy winter to me!’ ‘Do not distress yourself by conclud ing your narrative to-night,’ said Captain cheeks’of his venerable hostess were wet with tears, but that even Manon had drawn aside, and was sobbing vio ‘Nay !’ said Maman Letellier, ‘my tale is well nigh ended, and 1 would willingly recur to it no more.’ ‘lt is truly a melancholy night,’ re plied the guest approaching nearer to the hearth, so thai his arm could reach the back of the chair, on which little Manon had concealed her face. ‘The wind howls dolefully among the trees.— There will be a hurricane before morn ing.’ ‘And yet,’ resumed Madame Le Tell ier, ‘the weather is not half so portentous to-night as on the desolate Christmas Eve when l was roused from my bed bv one of the servants of the Chateau, to attend upon the dying moments of Madame de St. Sauveur. Throughout that day she had been better; had occupied herself in overlooking her aild.cAtwv-wwtt? season. But towards night she became suddenly worse, and at midnight the Marquis, foreseeing the necessity of my presence, forbade the servants to retire to bed. Having instantly obeyed his summons, I wrapt my cloak closely round me, as 1 stemmed the vio.ence of the wind in following old Gabriel up the ascent of the cote. The guests soon ex tinguished the lanterns but we could not miss our way, for in the cham ber of the dying woman high in the Chateau above the path, there burned a melancholly watch-light, shining out through the darkness of the storm with a fearful and unnatural radiance. ‘I was soon by the bed side. By the liaht of that ill omened lamp I looked upon the pale, pale face of Madam,— scarcely distinguishable from the white pillow oa which it rested; and noticed the slender hands devoutedly crossed upon the breast of the sufferer, as though it had been too great an indulgence for a dying sinner to suffer them to be clasped in the endearing grasp of the loved ones who knelt around her couch. Mademoi selle Sophie’s head was buried in the coverlid;—Claire and Antoinette were entwined in each other’s arms;—but on the face of the poor father was utter despair. ‘‘Take courage !’ said I after having bent over her, and examined her counte nance. ‘Heaven has given her renewed strength. Her breath is free— her pulse beats stronger. Speak, dear lady . c their hearts at ease! You are better are you not?’ , “Almost well V replied Madame de St Sauveur, in a voice whose hollowness startled her hearers with horror. ‘Raise me up, Victorine, and give me my last measures of earthly my ooul rosy bless you before 1 die. ‘Although nearly motionless, Sir, with awe, 1 obeyed her injunctions. I raised her in my arms —1 lifted to her lips a cordial potion; and, as she stooped her head to drink, 1 heard a murmur between 277