sacrifice. I can only indicate these noble and interesting considerations to those who are eager to study in material Rome the higher city and its significance.

Among l'Abbé Gerbet's writings I will mention only one other, which is, perhaps, his masterpiece, and is connected with a touching incident that will be felt most deeply by practically religious persons, but of which they will not be alone in their appreciation. It was before the year 1838, previously to the abbe's long residence in Rome, that he became intimate with the second son of M. de la Ferronais, former minister of foreign affairs. Young Count Albert de la Ferronais had married a young Russian lady, Mdlle. d'Alopeus, a Lutheran in religion, whom he eagerly desired to lead to the faith. He was dying of consumption at Paris in his twenty-fifth year, and his end seemed to be drawing near, when the young wife, on the eve of widowhood, decided to be of her husband's religion; and one night at twelve o'clock, the hour of Christ's birth, they celebrated in his room, beside the bed so soon to be a bed of death, the first communion of one and the last communion of the other. (June 29, 1836.) L'Abbé Gerbet was the consecrator and consoler in this scene of deep reality and mournful pathos, but yet so full of holy joy to Christians. It was the vivid interest of this incomparable and ideal death-bed which inspired him to write a dialogue between Plato and Fénélon, in which the latter reveals to the disciple of Socrates all needful knowledge concerning the other world, and in which he describes, under a half-lifted veil, a death according to Jesus Christ.

"O writer of Phædon, and ever admirable painter of an immortal death, why was it not given to you to be the witness of the things which we see with our eyes, hear with our ears, and seize with the inmost perceptions of the soul, when by a concurrence of circumstances of God's making, by a

rare complication of joy and agony, the Christian soul, revealed in a new 'half-light, resembles those wondrous evenings whose twilight has strange and nameless tints! What pictures then and what apparitions! Shall I describe one to you, Plato? Yes, in heaven's name, I will speak. I witnessed it a few days ago, but at the end of a hundred years I should still call it a few days. You will not understand the whole of what I tell you, for I can only speak of these things in the new tongue which Christianity has made; but still you will understand enough. Know, then, that of two souls that had waited for each other on earth and had met," etc.

Then follows the story, slightly veiled and, as it were, transfigured, but without hiding the circumstances. "Plato as a Christian would have spoken thus," said M. de Lamartine of this dialogue, and the eulogium is only just.

L'Abbé Gerbet could, no doubt, have written more than one of these admirable dialogues if he had wished to devote himself to the work, or if his physical organization had enabled him to labor continuously. He possesses all that is needed to make him the man for Christian Tusculanes. Three times in my life have I had the happiness of seeing him in places entirely suited to him, and which seemed to make a natural frame for him: at Juilly, in 1831, in the beautiful. shades that Malebranche used to frequent; in 1839, at Rome, beneath the arches of solitary cloisters; and yesterday, again, in the episcopal gardens of Amiens, where he lives, near his friend, M. de Salinis. Everywhere he is the same. Imagine a slightly stooping figure, pacing with long, slow steps a peaceful walk, where two can chat comfortably together on the shady side, and where he often stops to talk. Observe closely the delicate and affectionate smile, the benign countenance, in which something reminds us of Flé

chier and of Fénélon; listen to the sagacious words, elevated and fertile in ideas, sometimes interrupted by fatigue of voice, and by his pausing to take breath; notice among doctrinal views, and comprehensive definitions that come to life of themselves and prove their strength upon his lips, those charming mots and agreeable anecdotes, that talk strewn with reminiscences and pleasantly adorned with amenity, and do not ask if it is any one else-it is he.

L'Abbé Gerbet has one of those natures which when standing alone are not sufficient unto themselves, and need a friend; we may say that he possesses his full strength only when thus leaning. For a long time he seemed to have found in M, de Lamennais such a friend of firmer will and purpose but these strong wills often end, without meaning to do so, by taking possession of us as a prey, and then casting us like a slough. True friendship, as La Fontaine understood it, demands more equality and more consideration. L'Abbé Gerbet has found a tender and equal friend, quite suited to his beautiful and faithful nature, in M. de Salinis; to praise one is to win the other's gratitude at once. Will it be an indiscretion if I enter this charming household and describe one day there, at least, in its clever and literary attractions? L'Abbé Gerbet, like Fléchier, whom I have named in connection with him, has a society talent full of charm, sweetness, and invention. He himself has forgotten the pretty verses, little allegorical poems, and couplets appropriate to festivals or occasional circumstances, which he has scattered here and there, in all the places where he has lived and the countries he passed through. He is one of those who can edify without being mournful, and make hours pass gaily without dissipation. In his long life, into which an evil thought never glided, and which escaped all turbulent passions, he has pre

served the first joy of a pure and beautiful soul. In him a discreet spirituality is combined with cheerfulness. I have by me a pretty little scene in verse which he wrote a few days ago for the young pupils of the Sacred Heart at Amiens, in which there is a faint suggestion of Esther, but of Esther enlivened by the neighborhood of Gresset. The bishop of Amiens always receives them on Sunday evenings, and they come gladly to his salon, where there is no strictness, and where good society is naturally at home. They play a few games, and have a lottery, and, in order that no one may draw a blank, l'Abbé Gerbet makes verses for the loser, who is called, I think, le nigaud (the ninny). These nigauds of l'Abbé Gerbet are appropriate and full of wit; he makes them by obedience, which saves him, he says, from all blame and from all thought of ridicule. It is difficult to detach these trifles from the associations of society that call them forth; but here is one of the little impromptus made for the use and consolation "of the losers;" it is called the "Evening Game:"

"My children, to-day is our Lady's day; Now tell me, I pray, in her dear name, Should the hand that this morning a candle

clasped,

Hold cards to-night in a childish game?

I would not with critical words condemn
A pastime the world holds innocent,
Let me but say that its levity
May veil a lesson of deep intent.

Think at the drawing of each card
That every day is an idle game,
If at its close in the treasures of God
There is no prize answering to your name.

This evening game is an hour well passed
If God be the guardian of your sports;
And the day, closing as it dawned,
Shall rejoin this morning's holy thoughts.

I startle you all with my grave discourse: You would laugh and I preach with words austere:

No worldly place this-'tis the bishop's house; So pardon this sermon, my children dear."

This is the man who wrote the book upon the eucharist and the dialogue be tween Plato and Fénélon, and who had a plan of writing the last conference of

PART III.

LADY GREYSTOCK drove on briskly. They were out of the shadow of the trees and again on the broad, white gleaming gravelled road that led to the west lodge, and the turnpike road to Blagden. Not a word was spoken. On went the ponies, who knew the dark shadows of the elms that stood at intervals, in groups, two or three together, by the side of the road, and threw their giant outlines across it, making the moonlight seem brighter and brighter as it silvered the surface of the broad carriage drive, and made the crushed granite sparkle-on went the ponies, shaking their heads with mettlesome impatience when the pulling of the reins offended them, not frightened at the whirling of the great droning night insects, which flew out from the oak-trees on the left, nor shying away from the shadows-on they went through the sweet, still, soft, scented night air, and the broad, peaceful light of the silent moonon they went! Not one word mingled with the sound of their ringing hoofs, not a breath was heard to answer to the sighing of the leaves; the 66 good night" that had been spoken between the stranger and themselves still seemed to live in the hearing of those to whom he had spoken, and to keep them in a meditative and painful silence.

At last the lodge was reached.

The servant opened the gates; the carriage was driven through; the high road was gained, and all romantic mystery was over; the dream that had held those silent ones was gone; and like one suddenly awoke, Lady Greystock said: Greystock said: "Eleanor! how wonderful; you knew that man! Eleanor! he knew you; asked about you; had been seeking you. Why was he there in the Beremouth woods-appearing at this hour, among the ferns and grass, like a wild creature risen from its lair? Eleanor! why don't you speak to me? Why, when he spoke of you by your name, did you not answer for yourself? Why did you send him to Jenifer? Oh! Eleanor; I feel there is something terrible and strange in all this. I cannot keep it to myself. I must tell my father. It can't be right. It cannot be for any good that we met a man lurking about, and not owned by you, though he is here to find you. Speak, Eleanor! Now that I am in the great high road I feel as if I had gone through a terror, or escaped some strange danger, or met a mys tery face to face."

Lady Greystock spoke fast and in a low voice, and Eleanor, bending a little toward her, heard every word.

"You have met a mystery face to face," she said in a whisper, which, however, was sufficiently audible. "I did know that man. And I am

not denying that he sought me, and that he had a right to seek me. But many things have changed since those old days, when, if I had obeyed him, I should have done better than I did. I know what he wants; and Jenifer can give it to him. Here we are at Blagden; think no more of it, Lady Greystock."

No answer was given to Eleanor's words; they met Dr. Blagden on the steps at the door. "You are later than usual-all right?" "All quite right," said Eleanor. "The beauty of the night tempted us to come home through Beremouth," said Lady Greystock. "How lovely it would look on such a sweet, peaceful night," said Mrs. Blagden, who now joined them; and then Eleanor took the carriage wraps in her arms up stairs, and Lady Greystock went into the drawing-room, and soon after the whole household-all but Eleanorwere in bed.

Not Eleanor. She opened a bɔx where she kept her letters, and many small objects of value to her, and carefully shutting out the moonlight, and trimming her lamp into brilliancy, she took out letter after letter from Henry Evelyn calling her his beloved one, and his wife; then the letter from Corny Nugent, saying that Henry Evelyn and Horace Erskine were one; and the one thing that Corny Nugent had sent to her as evidence-it seemed to be proof sufficient. It was a part of a letter from Horace to his uncle, Mr. Erskine, which had been flung into a waste-paper basket, and which, having the writer's signature, Corny had kept, and sent to Eleanor. Not, as he said, that he knew the man's handwriting, but that she did; and that, therefore, to her it would have value as proving or disproving his own convictions.

Eleanor had never brought this evidence to the proof. She had laid by Corny's letter, and the inclosure. She had put it all aside with the weight of a great dread on her mind,

and "Not yet, not yet," was all she said as she locked away both the assertion and the proof.

But her husband was at Bercmouth now. Yes; and on what errand? She knew that too.

Mrs. Brewer had called that morning to see Lady Greystock. Mrs. Brewer had come herself to tell Claudia that Mary would arrive, and that Horace would bring her. She would not trust any one but herself to give that information. She never let go the idea of Horace having behaved in some wrong way to Claudia. She knew Claudia's disposition, her bravery, her determination; and her guesses were very near the truth. "Mother Mary " had those womanly instincts which jump at conclusions; and the truths guessed at through the feelings are truths, and remain truths for ever, though reason has never proved them or investigation explained them.

Then, too, there was her sister's letter, which Mrs. Brewer had sent to Father Daniels. There the passing fancy for Claudia had been spoken of. In that letter the love of money had peeped out, and supplied the motive; but Mrs. Brewer knew very well that Claudia's disposition was not of a sort to have any acquaintance with passing fancies. If she had loved Horace, she had loved with her whole heart; and if she had been deceived in him, her whole heart had suffered, and her whole life been overcast. "Mother Mary" had felt to some purpose; and now, only herself should say to Lady Greystock that he was coming among them again.

She had arrived at Blagden and she had told Claudia everything; what Horace wished as to Mary, and what her sister and Mr. Erskine desired; and she had not hidden her own unwillingness to lose her child, or her own wish that Mary might have married, when she did marry, some one more to her mother's mind, and nearer to her mother's