"She had other sweethearts, then?"

"Yes-would that some one else had been the fiancé! However, we were promised to each other. I bought her some long gold earrings, and a beautiful cross of gold-for she was fond of Church then; and "-here the old fellow heaved a pathetic sigh-"we were married. We were happy for a little time; but love, Monsieur l'Avocât, is always one-sided, like a boat in a gale of wind. Either the husband loves too much, or the wife does. With us, it was the husband. I fancied that I could have managed Estelle, and have made her obey me. I found, however, that she made me obey her. You see, Estelle was too fond of pleasure and of dress. I do not blame her, poor thing. The fisher folk have a hard life. She cared little for the boat-a beautiful boat, named after her; it is patched, and worn, and old now-and wanted to go to fairs, and fêtes, and dances. I was foolish, and let her go. I was young and thoughtless. Pleasure, and fairs, and fêtes do not earn money, but make one spend it. We grew poor. I borrowed money from my father, the old Père Martin. I am the Père Martin now."

There was a pathos in these words. How few of us like to stand alone! The boy who fancies that his father is a great and happy man hardly realises the fact that his father feels that he is alone, with none to advise him, and with all looking to him for assistance and advide; that he stands facing the dark future, the first in the course of nature to be pushed off this narrow strip, which we call Life, into the unknown ocean that surrounds us, which we name Eternity.

"The old father lent me money, and also some reproaches. I repaid him neither. One was soon spent-the other I forgot. What then? We wanted more money. The father had not any more to lend us-and, indeed, soon died, leaving some of his money to a good priest, and some to my brother. The money was better there than in my hands, for nothing prospered. I sold Estelle-I mean my boat. With that money we lived for some time; when Estelle, my wife, reproached me, called me a weak fool, and said that if I could not get money she would. She was un esprit fort.

"We then had a baby born-a little girl. I was terrified

She

by my Estelle's threats, and asked her what she meant. laughed, and spoke of some friend of hers, whom she used once to flirt with. This friend was a certain M. Gustave Flahault -a Swiss, I believe-un brave homme, very well formed, clean, and gentlemanly, who was valet to a great English nobleman -Milord Chesterton. This Gustave had visited us in our cottage; had noticed us in our fall and our poverty; and had proposed to Estelle that she should nurse the child of this great nobleman, and thus add money to our poor house. He was a very kind man, no doubt; but he brought misery to me. Alas! monsieur, it is many years ago. He is dead. Well, after a time I agreed. I was fond of my little child, my sweet Estelle as fond as I was of my boat. One I sold, and the other died. Poor petit ange! she is in heaven now, and looks

down upon her poor father.

"Oh, sir, if you can understand the heart of a poor father when he sees his own child and that of another man drawing sustenance from his wife's bosom; when he finds the one indulged in luxury, and preferred before his own; when soft clothes wrap the one, and but coarse rags the other; when one grows fat and lusty, coarse and strong-while the other pines. away and slowly dies, fading before its father's eyes; its little hands becoming so light-so light and thin; its little cheeks so white and transparent, its eyes so large and wide! Pauvre petit ange! it knew me and loved me, I am sure; for many a time have I rocked it to sleep on my bosom, while the usurper slept at its mother's breast. To see it die !—to reflect, M'sieur l'Avocât, on the difference between rich and poor-we who are equally the children of the same God; to know that one little flower was of the softer and gentler sex, more weak, and needing more care-une petite vierge, like the Mother of God herself; ; that the other was, or would be, a man-a man strong, rich, powerful-and, because of this, wicked; and that one was pushed out of life by the other! Ah, m'sieur! Some might have felt that to be foster-mother to a nobleman's son was an honour; but, m'sieur, we, nous autres, do not feel it so. They take all. Why take our children's milk and the bosoms of our wives? But there was one thing more bitter still. My child, my pure dove, my Estelle-I thank the bon Dieu !--had been

offered to the priest, and had been born in wedlock-blessed at God's altar: a blessed sacrament I have purely kept. The other the invader, the interloper-was the child of a nobleman, it is true: but he was-un bâtard!"

The old fisherman lifted his head as he spoke, and they who listened no longer felt his story dull as he continued.

THE old sailor looked round the bare, unfurnished court, as if he had relieved his mind, and his story may be thus continued:

:

"My mind misgave me when the valet, Gustave, made his proposal. But poverty cannot choose what it shall do, Monsieur l'Avocât, and I consented. Estelle was joyous. She said we were doing no more than many people in Normandy did, and that it was always lucky to get the nurse child of a great person. The English milord, too, was said to be very rich, as all the English are. And yet I have found many poor persons in England. Well, the child was brought. I have told you the result. My child died, but the nourisson lived! This seemed rather to please Estelle. She cared little for me now, and was often out on a visit with M. Gustave and the great nobleman, who was the father of the child, and who was very fond of it. This was the Earl of Chesterton. Well, I could not stand this; and with the money my wife got and some I borrowed, I bought another boat, and went to sea. Although the boat was blessed by the priest, she did not prosper. I named her Estelle-perhaps that was the reason. came back in two or three months, and found the nourisson quite a brave boy, and Estelle in a pretty cottage, and gaily dressed. When we had got comfortably seated by her stove, I saw from her affection that she wished me to do something for her. She need not have shown me any more, for she knew that I would do anything. I would have laid down my life.

I

for her. Presently she told me that she had been to see the mother of the little baby, the nourisson-that foster-child as you call it—and that she was a beautiful young woman who had been married by the left hand-as they do in Germany; but that, though the marriage was good, the poor, dear child would not succeed his father. Poor thing!' said I, looking kindly at it; but I thought of my little Estelle. It was a fine, beautiful baby-fair and large, like your English children; while mine was small, and of a beautiful, rich, dark complexion, poor thing! The little fellow stretched forth his fat arms towards me, and smiled.

"See, Achille,' said my wife, he loves you already. Will you help him to his rights?'

"What rights?' I asked. 'Ses droits!—are not ses droits all wrong, poor child?'

"Oh! those cursed rich people,' said Estelle, 'how they will rob the poor, and make laws of marriage for themselves, and not for us.'

"We need not speak against them, Estelle,' I answered; 'they, too, are our brothers.'

66 6

Well, we can help this poor babe, at least,' she answered; 'I love it as my own, and it will be a lord some day'"-here Mr Horton and Old Daylight listened with intense interest— "and I shall have been its foster-mother, and we will both be rich, and you shall have your boat a thousand times better than the one you have, with others to work for you.'

"But my poor little daughter-she is gone.' "Bah! how foolish of you. We shall have other children -a son-some day, no doubt,' said Estelle, with a laugh.

"What she said was very true, monsieur," interjected the old fisherman, gravely. "We had another child, a son. He is alive still, and wishes to marry a poor and good girl. That was why I went to his mother to beg her to give him some portion for his marriage, or a little dot for his bride."

"And to do a little smuggling too, you old sinner," thought Brownjohn to himself, "if all be true that César Negretti has told me. Well, time will bring all things to light. He seems to be bamboozling the beak with his long yarn. Dang it! a seaman, somehow or other, whether he is a French salt or a

British tar, can always beat your landsman to fits, the way he manages his jaw tackle."

"In that I did not succeed, sir; and I was going back empty-handed-for Estelle did not improve as she grew old. Few women do. Well, m'sieur, she had an idea that, as that child was a Frenchman, born of a French mother, on the French soil, and under a French flag, we should do him right. His father, it would seem, was very fond of him, and not so fond of the légitime. It was proposed by M. Gustave Flahault, inspired without doubt by the father, that we should, by some means, meet and exchange the children."

"What children?"

"Ah! I had forgotten to tell you. This Lord Chesterton, that great English nobleman, a mighty prince in his own land, had been obliged, by the laws of his country, and the truly British phlegm of his father-cold and haughty sire of a proud race-to marry an English miladi; therefore, having done so, he did not love her. You see, there is the same fall for rich and poor in the way of love. I loved Estelle, and she did not love me. This poor lady, doubtless, loved her lord, and he did not love her. We play at cross purposes in this life—at Colin Maillard! catch who catch can-and then where are we?"

This question, put chiefly to himself, not being answered, the old fellow continued his story.

"The matter had been fully arranged between M. Gustave and my wife. We were to have three thousand francs for the business, and a small pension beside; for the milord was rich, and could pay for his wickedness. You see, the child of the woman he so loved-for he did love her with all his heart, this proud milord!-was to be taken home by the nurse, instead of the child she nursed; for both were boys, and there was but a few days' difference between their birthdays. Poor children they were unconscious of all this. What does it matter to one in the cradle whether he is peasant or milord? What will it matter when we are in the grave?"

"What, indeed?" thought the magistrate.

"But I was not then a philosophe. I could not consent that the child should be wronged.