Ann," and bears no address but that of "London."

Her consciousness as to a want of faith checks anything like exultation in the heart of Margaret. The organ, resonant and sublime, plays again in fancy to her ear, and utters its loud reproach; so stealing gently to the side of Eleanor, she kneels and whispers

growing still more intensely pale, "what can the child have been doing?

At once the whole truth rushes into Margaret's mind; so, bending forward, she says, very softly, "The child, I think, has been getting married."

"Married!" exclaims Eleanor-" to whom? Charles Wooton is not yet returned, and she loves him I know; besides she is so very young

"Dear sister, my want of faith is rebuked.
Here is your dream come true. Here is £5.-not yet eighteen."
Our hearth to-morrow will not be desolate."
Again the sisters weep-this time gentler

tears.

When they have talked the subject over, Margaret rises, seeks for an ancient fragment of wax-candle, with which for years she has waxed her thread, lights it, goes to the wood-house, finds wood there, brings it in, has soon a cheerful fire, and then learns that little Susan went home at four o'clock, ostensibly to go some errand for her mother, and when done to return. This she did not.

"Thus I was alone, dear Margaret," says Eleanor, “and, as you know, was unable to fetch wood or prepare for you in any way. My neglect of you must therefore be forgiven."

It is this without asking.

Just as the kettle boils, and Margaret has taken off her soddened things, the hamper arrives. It is a very large one, and Miss Butler knows by the direction that it is from Rose. Yes! Here is their beloved thinking of them. Here a new rebuke to her want of faith.

'If you please ma'am," says the lad who brings it, "the carriage is paid, and Mrs. Bradley said I was just to tell you that her Susan went sliding near the barn and sprained her arm, and so couldn't come again; but that she herself will be up right early in the morning, and stay with you as long as you need."

"Tell her to do so, please; and let one of her boys come with her, to bear a message back to his father. Tell her not to forget me, as Miss Rose is coming."

The boy gone, the doors locked, the key of one hidden where Mrs. Bradley will find it, in order to let herself in in the morning, Margaret, tired as she is, proceeds to unfasten the hamper; the kettle, though boiling, being in the meanwhile forgotten. Eleanor holds the candle, and Margaret, bringing the hamper to the side of the spider-legged couch, kneels down before it. Raising the lid, the first thing she sees, as she expected, is a note. She opens it-it runs thus "Dearest Aunties,

I send you a Christmas hamper, holding as What I many useful things as I could think of. forget please pardon, as I have much to occupy me just now. I shall be with you to-morrow by three o'clock. Please dine at four; and, as I shall bring company with me, let all the eatables I send be on the table. Most of these are cooked in order to

save you trouble. Besides this, dear aunties, you must be in a very charitable and loving mood, for your little Rose has been doing what perhaps you will think is very foolish; but you must and will forgive her. With love, your sinning Rose."

"Bless me!" says poor Eleanor, her pale face

Miss Margaret then proceeds to tell her sister what she heard at the canonry to-day; and, putting this and other circumstances together, their conjecture amounts to certainty.

"Because," says Margaret, "the dear child has no money of her own. Ten pounds a year, as pupil-teacher in a country school, wouldn't permit of presents such as this; besides the dear child had no money when we sent her a trifle a while ago. No, the Squire, in his way a fine-hearted old man, though a little crotchety and obstinate, has either taken Rose to Southampton, and so had her married there, or else Charles has come down to WootonHall, and she was fetched there from school."

In this way the sisters remain a long time conjecturing and full of surprise, in some de gree vexed that Rose did not consult them, but otherwise very proud and pleased.

The search into the hamper is presently re newed: it contains an acceptable stock of grocery, inclusive of tea, sugar, and other things. Then comes a great plum-pudding, only partially to boil to be quite perfect; a goose to stuff and roast; a grand piece of sir loin already cooked; a pigeon pie; a boiled ham, tartlets, mince pies, fruit for dessert, four bottles of wine, and something a little stronger for punch.

"I'm sure," says Eleanor, "if I had nothing else to tell me, I should know that these fine filberts and golden pippins came out of the old orchard at Wooton.'

"And I recognize the old cook's hand in this delicious pastry and plum-cake," adds Margaret.

When the nice things are stored carefully away, Margaret makes herself and Eleanor some tea, and, after partaking of this and other refreshment, they retire to rest.

It is late when Margaret awakes next morning, and then she finds the good woman from the village standing, with a very cheerful countenance, by her bedside.

"A happy Christmas morning to you ma'am. If you please, Miss Eleanor says I am to make the tea, and bring you your breakfast, for you are not to get up yet. But I have been here a good while ma'am, and so has my husband, sweeping the broad walk across the lawn. 1 have made the parlours neat, and lighted a fire in the best one, and taken off the sofa and chair covers, for I felt sure you would like it in holi day fashion, as you'd be sitting in it to-day. She says this so meaningly, so kindly, so smilingly, that Margaret feels sure she knows something.

The Christmas Letter.

'Mary," asks Margaret eagerly, "do you one, my dear boy," says the old Squire, right gravely; 'I'll see about one to-morrow. know anything of Miss Rose?

"Well ma'am, I believed it wur to be kept a secret from you, but as I've been thinking you've guessed it, why you may just as well know what news old Johnny Broom brought wi' him from the town last night. Why, that Miss Rose was married yesterday morning at Wooton Church, and this by the new parson, that not be come there long-Mr. Hopton

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* *"

'Hopton?" repeats Margaret, with intense surprise, as the blood mantles to her face.

"Ay! ma'am, I reckon you'd know the name. My maister's old mother, that just luckily be come to us for a day or two, and so can cook th' bit o' dinner for the children, and leave me to be here, says it be the same Mr. Hopton as used to come up and down to the prebendary-house when thee and Miss Eleanor wur young ladies, and she wur cook there.

Well, for some reason or another, folks never exactly know'd, he went, as chaplain, to a foreign country, and was away many years. But ye see, old Squire Wooton, whose friend he'd been, had his eye on him, and when the parson o' Wooton died off-which ye see he didn't do till he was past ninety-why the squire sent for Mr. Hopton, who wur right glad to come to his own country, and to such a nice rectory-house, and lot o' money, has there be at Wooton. Well, Mr. Hopton had only just begun to settle down, when there comes the grand news about the storming o' that great place in the Crima and the young squire's mighty bravery-for which our good Queen has since made him a Captain. So, hearing this, and of the young squire's wounds, why the old man's heart wur melted to the biggest pity, and a deal o' regret wur his, that he'd been so testy and off-hand like. Why, says he, Am I to be such an old grampus and fool, as stand off from a brave lad like this, as has done such honour to the old and all because he loves a pretty girl, a deal younger than himself, and without money, but who, otherwise, has a power o' riches in a good heart, a good name, and much beauty?' So off he set at once, with Mrs. Ramble, the housekeeper, to Southampton, and there, for some weeks, they nursed the poor captain, for he wur very bad. But as soon as his dreadful operation wur over, and he could be moved. "What operation? asks Margaret, breathlessly, as well as Eleanor, who listens from her bed in the adjacent room.

name,

"Why, his right arm was shattered by a cannon-ball. At first the doctors thought they could save it, but they couldn't, so off it had to come, right high by the shoulder. Nor is that all, for he'd a sword-cut in the leg. Well, about a fortnight ago, down they brought him to Wooton. A few days ago, when he wur a deal better and could talk a bit cheerfully, he says merrily when his uncle, and the housekeeper, and the doctor, were all helping to dress his wounds-A pretty fellow I shall be, I fear, needing a nurse all my life.' You shall have

"No one thought he was serious; but he wur; for the day before yesterday he went off in his carriage to the village where Miss Rose wur, asked to speak to old Miss Grimpen, the governess, and then telled her he wur come for her teacher.'

"She can't go,' says the old missis, right crossly, not till to-morrow or Christmas Day; "I thought Miss Butler knew as much; for the girl has the china-closet to dust, my best cap to trim, and other equally important work to do." "I've some a little more important for her, ma'am,' says the Squire, drily-'to nurse a sick and wounded soldier.'

"Nonsense,' says old Miss Grimpen (for she pretended to be very shocked); 'a highly im"Not for a wife,' adds the old Squire. proper thing for a child to do.' "Wife!' screams Miss Grimpen. A child like Rose a wife! Pray who are you, sir, and by what authority do you come?'

"By my own, ma'am. My name is Wooton, and I live at Wooton Hall. Rose Butler has got to marry my nephew in the morning—a brave soldier whom his Queen has honoured; and Rose from that hour is mistress at Wooton

Hall.'

"Bless me!' And Miss Grimpen proceeds to ask a lot of questions.

"There, ma'am, I've no time to make answers to your catechism. Put the dear child's things in a box, and let her come.

"So Miss Grimpen takes it on her to be as smiling as just before she was cross, and helps Rose wi' her things; so that the dear young lady was soon on her way, the old Squire being all the while as tender to her as her father.

"When they got to the fine old hall-which they did towards evening-the old Squire left the dear young lady wi' Mrs. Ramble, and went into the parlour where the wounded gentleman was lying on a couch.

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My dear boy,' he says, I've brought you

a nurse.'

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'Have you?' replied the other, indifferently. “As you seem careless about her, my boy, I'll bring her in, and let her speak for herself.' So he returns, and takes in Miss Rose, looking, as the old butler told Broom, most lovely. The wounded gentleman did not see her till she was close beside his couch, and, stooping, whispered 'Charles.' Then in a minute he started, and

looked and saw her, and understood all, and gathered her to him as well as his feebleness would let him.

"My love,' he said, when he had called her a hundred other loving names, I have but one The one gone my country had; the arm, now. other is yours, to gather you in, to shield you by-if so you will.'

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“Of course, Miss Margaret, the dear child, did not say no; but, kneeling and kissing him again, wept like a babe.

"She shall be yours, and in the morning, my

nurse, and who could be so tender to him as a | magoria of an hour-one round of actions on a little wife?" narrow stage, whilst beneath runs on the eternal current of spiritual life, as full of hope as it is of beneficence and good!

They may well forgive her, for they do not think she has sinned; but press around her, knowing not what to say or do in their extreme joy and deep affection. They raise her up, they weep about her, they load her with caresses, and are as tender to her husband as though he were their son.

"Rose and I are come to stay a month with you, Margaret and Eleanor," he says, "and you must help her to nurse me, as well as forgive my stealing away your prize. But my uncle, an old bachelor, was quite right; he knew none could be to me like Rose. Such reward is worth many limbs, and many wounds."

So they wheel a couch beside the fire, and lay him on it, pale and stricken as he is; Rose kneels beside him, the arm which is left encompassing her.

Then the old squire, who has lingered behind, comes in, and is very friendly and kind, and apologises for the past, and says what he has now done and means to do, must in some way be his atonement. To this he adds that in a month's time, he shall expect the young people home, where Rose will be mistress, and abundance be hers.

Then they draw about the fire-Mr. Hopton with them-and talk earnestly, till the day has waned, and the dinner brought in.

This is excellent, goose and pudding included; after it comes dessert, with fine old wine, which the squire has brought in his carriage. Whilst drinking this it is settled that Wooton rectory shall be prepared, and Margaret and Eleanor go home there in some six weeks'

time.

After coffee, and whilst it is yet early, the squire and Mr. Hopton go; the former full of all imaginable kindness and generosity to Rose.

Then comes the true Christmas-the hour of peace and love-of sympathy and affection; when the two sisters speak as to a son to the wounded soldier. They tell him of past trials —of the trial of yesterday-and of the coming of the CHRISTMAS LETTER.

Whilst it is yet early, the patient and his nurse go to their chamber; the sisters to theirs.

It is a heavenly night, frosty and rich with silvery moonlight. When all is still-when she is the last stirring in the peaceful house--Margaret goes softly into her sister's chamber, and kneels down beside her bed.

"Throughout the blessings of this day, Nelly, one thing has still been present, and reproached me-my want of faith-my prostration before trials which were merely human."

"Sister! for the future we will both have larger faith and hope."

We all need these. In them the recurring festivals of human life should deepen our belief. For, after all, human trials are but the phantas

Earth's lovely scenes are shrouded from his sight; Perchance dim shapes of horror flit before himPerchance harsh, jarring sounds his ear affright! Not so. The stranger, desolate and lonely,

A welcome meets from ocean's dreary cells:
No fear is in his heart; he listens only

To the sweet music of the Deep Sea Bells!
Hopes, joyous hopes, within his soul are springing,
Yet from no human source those hopes arise:
He feels as though the bells of Heaven were ringing
His raptured spirit into Paradise!

Lo! aid is nigh. Escap'd from Death's embraces,
Once more he views green fields and flowery dells;
And yet he heaves a sigh, when he retraces

The tuneful music of the Deep Sea Bells.
May he through future years the memory treasure ;
May he reflect, amid the light and vain,
How frail is life, how brief is worldly pleasure;
And in the time of trial and of pain,
Oh! may he breathe a trusting supplication

To Him in whom all loving goodness dwells-
To Him who soothed him in his desolation
By the sweet music of the Deep Sea Bells!

DEAD LOVE.
Search the heart of what I say-
In the morning of the day,
We two met upon the way.

O that hour of all hours,
In the alleys and the bowers
Of a paradise of flowers.

With the sunrise on the dew,
When we met first, I and you!
And we loved before we knew.

Then the pulse of light throbbed low;
Then eclipse did grow and grow;
Then an awful wind sighed "No!"

Then we heard the ravens call:
-Now anew let darkness fall,
And oblivion over all.

But O rapture! but O pain!
But to love our love again!
But to love-though love in vain!
MARY BROTHERTON.

A FETE-DAY IN PARIS.

"You cannot surely be such a barbarian as to leave Paris before the 15th of August," said my friends, when I announced my intended departure on the 10th.

"Well, really," said I, "I do not know much about the féte-a few fireworks, I suppose; but as a week is of little consequence, I will go down to Fontainebleau, and return to you in time to see Paris illuminated."

Accordingly I went down to enjoy the historical recollections of that most interesting place, and returned to Paris to describe the Emperor's fete to those of my readers who are as ignorant as I was of what it consisted.

In all Roman Catholic countries it is not the custom to celebrate the birthday as we do, but to present the usual congratulations and gifts on the day of the saint after whom you are named; but as Napoleon was a saint unknown previous to the first Emperor of that name, the Pope was induced to choose the day devoted to the Virgin Mary, namely, the 15th of August, and add to the Calendar a Saint Napoleon: hence on that day all Maries and Napoleons throughout the whole of his Holiness's dominions hold their féte-day, though in very various degrees of splendour.

Flowers, either in bouquets or pots, are the universal present from acquaintances and servants, for these latter always share in any festi vity; and the exquisite flower-markets of Paris afford every opportunity for the gratification of taste. Accordingly, when the long-expected morning arrived, the lady and servant of the house in which I stayed presented me with the usual bouquets, much to my delight and astonishment, as I was previously unacquainted with the custom.

which formed the various erections; three hundred were arranged on every arch; and when it is considered that these arches covered an extent of at least three miles, the labour must not be considered trifling.

Leaving the men in their blouses to their work, we will pass on to see how the people are enjoying themselves at the fair. Here were booths of all kinds, with sweetmeats and toys, equally popular with old and young: the French are famous for their love of sugar and bonbons, and it used to astonish me to see how delighted the men would be to play with a penny rattle, or an old woman of fifty with a squeaking lamb, even when no child was near to amuse; in such cases I could not help laughing, and they quite enjoyed moving the risibility of a grave Englishwoman, seeming to consider that as a compli ment, which arose from a feeling strongly allied to contempt for their puerile amusement.

Here we come to a great attraction, a shootingbooth, so many shots for a sou; the target is generally a wax figure, sometimes of a very horrible nature, such as a woman holding in her hand a man's head just cut off, ready in fact for Madame Tussaud's room of horrors; but we hear enough of these things from the seat of war, so we will pass on, and see what the crowd yonder are listening to.

It is a quack doctor, dressed as a harlequin, mounted on a light car, from which he is spouting with all the volubility of a Frenchman, and of one who has a cure for the whole world in his hand; occasionally he takes up a leg bone, which, with sundry other grim remnants of mortality, grace his carriage, and, pointing out its conformation, applies it by an incomprehensible process to the subject of corns, for the cure of which he now offers you bottles and ointments, by which all suffering can be alleviated. Now and then a man, overcome by the mighty power of eloquence, advances, pays his money, and re

For many days past, hundreds of workmen had been busily engaged in the Champs Elysees, and the Place de la Concorde, putting up scaffolding in arches and other devices, ready for the illumination, much disfiguring the tout en-ceives the infallible nostrum. semble of that unequalled drive. The total expenditure of these decorations was to amount to the enormous sum of £30,000, voted from the revenues of the Ville de Paris, which corporation holds immense property, buying up houses in all directions, and receiving the rents, to lay out in public improvements and amusements. If the day only were fine, this was to surpass every other fete, in splendour of decorations and perfect taste in arrangement.

The day dawned beautifully, not the hot sun usually felt in August, but a clear, cool sky, and no rain. About noon I set off to see the fair, which was to be held in the side avenues of the Champs Elysées. Crossing the grand drive, I perceived wagons innumerable drawn up at the sides, close to the arches; they contained hampers, holding the little glass lamps, coloured red, blue, yellow, and white; each having inside wax and wick sufficient to burn three hours: a book of wire at the side rendered it easy work for a man to hang them upon the bars of wood

Wandering onwards, we come to the beautiful quays which line the banks of the Seine, and find them crowded with those who delight in aquatic feats; boats full of wrestlers are there, and struggling to throw each other into the water, every successful attempt eliciting shouts of applause and laughter.

is

But here comes a carriage, drawn by a pair of fine horses; and as all vehicles are forbidden on this day in the Champs Elysées, every eye turned to this, knowing that it must belong to royalty. Yes, it is the Emperor and Empress, who are driving about to watch the progress of the fete before going to dinner at the Tuileries, from the central balcony of which they watch the fireworks and illuminations of the evening; she looking handsome and melancholy, with the fair hair and complexion so highly prized by the Parisians, because so rare among them; he so shrouded in moustache, that his citizens, with their love of bon-mots, say, "he never shews his teeth but to his wife."