flowers, Serene, I shall know you are true to me. lover's whim, is it not? You'll indulge me?"

It's a

"I shall never lose it," she said, and a momentary gloom came to her face as she spoke; a shadow overspread her, she knew not why. They had no other parting than that, for Lawrance was walking towards the little railroad station while yet the sky was scarcely crimsoned with the early summer sun, and Serene was sleeping in that soft slumber that is blessed by happiest dreams.

No cloud of any future darkened upon her. Her lover— noble, chivalrous-was gone to fight the world, carrying her true love in his heart.

(To be continued.)

THE SWEET GUITAR.

WHEN the evening star is peeping,
And the bird has sought its nest,
When the glowworm's lamp is shining
Like a jewel on thy breast:
Then, oh lady, wilt thou wander
From the busy throng afar,
To a song of true love listen,
As I touch the sweet guitar?

I will tell of one who rambled
On an evening calm like this,
And the vows of love heard plighted,
While her bosom throbbed with bliss.
I will tell thee how the morrow
Saw her young knight haste afar,
Where the martial drum was sounding,
And where clashed the steels of war.

I will tell thee how a sweet dove
Brought sad news beneath its wing
To the lattice of that fair one,

And a shade o'er life did fling.

I will tell thee how that maiden

In her sadness roamed afar;

But if tears thy bright eyes dim, love,

I will touch the sweet guitar.

T.

THE FLORAL FEZ.-The most coquettish novelty of the season is the floral fez or pouf hat, studded so closely with flowers that the frame is concealed. One is made entirely of blue forget-me-nots, an aigrette is in the front, a white blond scarf falls behind, and is brought over the face for a veil. Another is of Parma violets with trailing foliage. Others are of dwarf wheat, with a cluster of field flowers in front and a black lace rosette on top. A vine of blue convolvulus, radiated with pink stripes, trims others. The most unique of all is the beetle-wing fez, covered with fine feathery grasses and moss, amidst which are chameleonwinged beetles. A tiny humming bird is perched on the top, and the strings are of ribbon representing striped

THE MYSTERY OF THE HOTEL. (Continued from our last.)

67

Her parents

JULIE's history was a sad and simple one. had died of fever when she was a mere infant, and the Comte de l'Orme-he was the Comte Auguste then-had taken pity on the pretty homeless child, and had persuaded his mother to have her brought to the chateau, and educated under her own eye. Thus the little girl was in many things almost a lady, and hence perhaps arose her reserve to those of her own rank, and the few friendships she made among them. On the comte's marriage, Julie was transferred to the new comtesse's care, and had been retained in a confidential capacity near her person ever since. Indeed, it was often said that if Madame de l'Orme cared for any one or trusted any one, it was Julie.

Scandal-mongers hinted that the watchful care she bestowed on the orphan might arise less from affection than jealousy; that she was clever enough to see that the best chance of discouraging Monsieur de l'Orme's evident partiality for the young girl was to keep her constantly under her own eye. But this was only scandal. It is true that in his lady's presence it was impossible for him to say even one kind word to the child whose life he had saved, and whom he had hitherto treated with brotherly kindness, but that was all. Yet every one remarked that when Monsieur de l'Orme and his valet left the castle little Julie looked very sad, and when some time afterwards it was certain that they had joined the fatal Russian expedition she looked sadder still. Then the news from the seat of war, how eagerly she listened to it! How pale her cheek grew when a report reached St. Bignold that the division in which Monsieur de l'Orme served had been exposed to great danger at the passage of the Niemen! How her pretty eyes filled with tears when, in spite of the official bulletins of success and victory, faint rumours reached France of the miseries the great army had endured from fatigue, famine, and sickness! And how the colour glowed in her softly-rounded cheek when the so-called "glorious victory" of Borodino filled the public ear with delight! What was it to Julie that thousands had fallen on either side? Those in whom St. Bignold was interested were safe. Those? Nay, it was easy to see that Julie thought only of one. He was safe! But who was that he? The Comte de l'Orme?

The good news caused excitement even in Madame de l'Orme's cold bosom; and when the dignitaries of St. Bignold requested her to preside at a grand ball to be given in honour of the great event, she graciously acceded to their wishes, and for once, forsaking her usual habits of seclusion, appeared at the ball in a splendid dress, and wearing her most magnificent jewels. More than this, she gave Julie permission to attend the civic ball which was to take place the suceeding evening at the Hotel de Ville, in celebration of the same great victory. Julie was charmed

behind me. I shudder still when I think how terrified I felt hen I remembered how lonely and unprotected I was. t the very excess of my terror checked my screams, and od quite still before the mirror, trying to convince myhat the momentary glimpse of that face was only a n raised up by my conscience to punish my vanity. nd-by I began to recollect how impossible it was that ould gain access to the room, whose only entrance h my own chamber, which was only reached from with that heavy iron-bound doer always kept astened. And as to the windows, they were the ground. As I reflected thus, my fears and hastily unfastening the chain and ced them in the trinket drawer. I then nire, folded it carefully, and put it away, ger have my thoughts engrossed by its when this was done, I changed my embroidery madame had left me to was one thing, however, which I quite, forgot he earrings! It was pure forgetfulness, mon père, leaving them in my ears, but they will not believe that it was so, and they found them there, and that you know was greatly against me." She paused a moment and then continued her history.

"Perhaps it was because these fatal rings were still in my ears; perhaps, that I had real cause for my terror; but in spite of every effort, I could not keep my thoughts quiet as I sat at my work. The mirrors seemed to reflect and reflect again the light of my little lamp as I had never seen them do before; strange ghostly lights and shadows appeared to flit through the room, and whenever I chanced to look up, I was haunted by the dread of again seeing the face I had imagined peering behind the window-curtains. At last, I could endure the uncertainty no longer, and I forced myself to look behind every curtain in the room. It was very difficult to gain the necessary courage, but I did it, and found-nothing; nothing but thick darkness." "And then, my child?"

"Ah! then madame came home very tired and very-" she paused, then added ingenuously, "People are often a little irritable when they are tired, and madame complained that I hurt her in arranging her hair for the night; and perhaps I did, for I was very sleepy. But, thank God! she said, Good night, God bless you, my child!' before I left her. That is such a comfort to me now!"

The rest of the story was more briefly told. Julie slept late the morning after the ball, and when she awoke she was surprised to find that the door of communication between her room and that of her mistress was still closed. Madame De l'Orme was in the habit of bolting it every night after Julie left her, but by an ingenious mechanical contrivance could, when she wished it, withdraw the bolt without rising from her bed, and in the morning it generally unfastened. When this was not the case a single tap at the door was enough to break the light sleep of the comtesse. But

summons without receiving an answer. Ten o'clock struck, half-past ten, and there was no sound in the chamber. Eleven came, and Julie, alarmed at the length of her mistress's slumbers, determined on a desperate step to relieve her anxiety. She could obtain no assistance from without, for the key of the staircase-door was in her mistress's possession. She was therefore a prisoner in her own room, from which there was but one mode of egress, and that so perilous that only her present circumstances could have induced her to attempt it. Her window and those of the next room opened on a very narrow balcony, or rather ledge of stone, and along this ledge it was barely possible for her to creep, and by means of the key of her own window, which accident had previously taught her fitted the others also, make her way into Madame de l'Orme's chamber. It was a dangerous attempt; one too which, if successful, might draw down upon her her mistress's anger. Still she would willingly risk that, if she were sure that the balcony could bear her weight. How frail it looked! And so high from the ground that if she fell! Her head grew giddy at the thought, but she was a brave, unselfish girl, and her anxiety on Madame de l'Orme's account nerved her to dare the

perilous passage. As she stepped cautiously from the window she almost gave up the project in despair. The ledge was scarce two feet wide, the balustrade that guarded it only eighteen inches high; but she resolutely turned her eyes from the abyss beneath, and with the key in her hand reached the other window in safety. But the key was unnecessary, the window was-open! The start occasioned by this discovery almost caused her to overbalance herself, but the instinct of self-preservation taught her to clutch at the window-frame for support. She regained her equilibrium, thrust aside the closed curtain, and entered the

room.

All was still as death; but as she glanced hastily round she perceived that the secretaire where Madame de l'Orme kept her money and valuable papers was open, and rifled of its contents; the jewel-casket left last night on the dressing-table was gone, and the wardrobes also were open, but apparently untouched. Could this have been done without rousing so light a sleeper as her mistress? A new fear fell upon her as she felt this was impossible, and with a tremulous step she advanced towards the bed. The curtains at its head were drawn as she was accustomed to find them in a morning, the bed-clothes were unruffled. Nothing in the whole aspect of the bed gave token of violence, and yet she hesitated to withdraw the drapery. "Madame, it is very late," she whispered. There was no

answer.

She repeated the words in a louder tone, and at length ventured to touch the hand that lay placidly outside the coverlet. Its touch was sufficient-that chilling peculiar touch which nothing but death can give. She tore the curtain aside the sight paralysed her.

(To be continued.)

ball before," she told Madeline, "and had not danced, actually not danced since-since monsieur left the chateau. But at this ball she should dance, and with a light heart too, for there would be no more battles, or famine, or misery, now, would there? The road to Moscow was open, people said; the false Russians were already at our Emperor's feet, and so the army must return very soon. Ah, yes! she should enjoy the ball so much!"

Such was Julie's confidence to her only friend, as, after madame's departure for the ball, she lingered a moment on the threshold of the heavy door of division ere closing it between herself and the outer world till her mistress's return.

Poor Julie! On the very night on which she had promised herself so much enjoyment she sat alone in a prison cell, accused of murdering her benefactress, 'and without the slightest hope of clearing herself from the imputation.

CHAPTER II.

"OH that I had one friend, one counsellor in my great need!" she exclaimed in the bitterness of her sorrow: "but I have none, not one. Would to God I had been the victim and not madame! It would have been a moment's pang and then peace. But this hopeless waiting-this shameful death! And Louis, even Louis will never know that I die innocent!"

This last thought was agony indeed. "Louis to believe her guilty of such a crime!" and burying her face in her clasped hands, she wept as if her heart were breaking.

A touch on the shoulder and the sound of a familiar voice roused her from her stupor of grief, and glancing up with a startled air at the speaker, she recognised the old priest who had known her from childhood.

"Take comfort, my daughter," he said, "and trust in God to help you. Remember that though a mother may forget her child, He never forsakes those who trust in Him.

Julie sank at the feet of the good old man.

66

Oh, mon père, I thank you for those blessed words. And yet there is so much against me that-that though God may know my innocence, and you also may believe it, those stern judges will not."

"Calm yourself, my child, and tell me how it all happened. I will do what I can to help you to prove your innocence, but to be able to do this you must have no concealments from me."

"Indeed, I shall tell you everything, for I have no real crime to confess, mon père, only one little fault; but, oh! what misery that has brought!" and sobs checked her

utterance.

The good old priest allowed her emotion to have its way for a time, and when she regained her composure she told him the whole truth.

၁၁၁

After leaving Madeline and carefully closing the door of communication between herself and the under part of the house, Julie had re-entered the comtesse's apartment and availed herself of the few hours of leisure afforded by her absence to put the finishing touches to the simple white muslin dress she intended to wear at the civic ball. When the dress was complete an allowable vanity induced her to try it on; and as she marked the graceful folds in which it fell round her really elegant figure, the thought occured to her that, perhaps, a very few weeks only might elapse before she should again wear a white dress along with her couronne de mariée, and should kneel with Louis before the altar in the dear old chapel at beautiful De l'Orme.

"With Louis, my daughter ?" said Father Sylvestre, interrupting the naive relation.

66

"Ah, mon père, you must rember Louis, monsieur's own valet?" she said, quickly. You cannot have forgotten my Louis? As children we were always together, and afterwards we used to dance together on fête days. When he left De l'Orme with monsieur I thought my heart would break; but we both knew he ought to go, and he went." "Ah, yes, I remember."

"I knew you could not forget him!" she said, with eagerness. "He came back to see me, you know, one little hour before he went with monsieur to that terrible Russia; and since then he has written once or twice to poor Julie. It was not wrong to receive his letters, was it, mon père?" and she raised her pleading dovelike eyes to the old man's face.

"No, my daughter," he answered, gently, as he laid his tremulous hand on her head. Go on. You thought of Louis and your bridal dress?"

"Yes. But by-and-by more sinful thoughts came into my mind; for my eyes chancing to fall on a beautiful cachemire madame had worn in the morning, I wondered how Louis would like to see such a pretty thing on my shoulders, and then I put it on to see how it would suit my white dress; and it looked so lovely that I turned from one mirror to another to admire myself in it. And then I-I began to wish I were a rich lady, and could wear cachemires every day. And when once that thought took possession of me I went on. I took the earrings madame had taken out when she made her grande toilette, and fastened them in my ears; I hung her gold chain round my neck and clasped bracelets round my wrists; and at the sight of every new ornament the wicked thought of longing to be a lady got more and more hold of me, till at last I laughed aloud at my delight. The sound seemed to echo on the stillness of the room, and I almost believed that it was not my own voice alone that had so strange an effect upon me. I shuddered I knew not why, and at last worked myself up to such a pitch of terror that, as I glanced uneasily at the mirror before me, I almost fancied that I saw a man's face peering at me from between the closed curtains of the window

behind me. I shudder still when I think how terrified I felt when I remembered how lonely and unprotected I was. But the very excess of my terror checked my screams, and I stood quite still before the mirror, trying to convince myself that the momentary glimpse of that face was only a phantom raised up by my conscience to punish my vanity. And by-and-by I began to recollect how impossible it was that any one could gain access to the room, whose only entrance was through my own chamber, which was only reached from the staircase with that heavy iron-bound doer always kept BO carefully fastened. And as to the windows, they were forty feet from the ground. As I reflected thus, my fears became quieted, and hastily unfastening the chain and bracelets, I replaced them in the trinket drawer. I then took off the cachemire, folded it carefully, and put it away, that I might no longer have my thoughts engrossed by its lovely colour. And when this was done, I changed my dress and took up the embroidery madame had left me to finish. There was one thing, however, which I quite, forgot -the earrings! It was pure forgetfulness, mon père, leaving them in my ears, but they will not believe that it was so, and they found them there, and that you know was greatly against me." She paused a moment and then continued her history.

"Perhaps it was because these fatal rings were still in my ears; perhaps, that I had real cause for my terror; but in spite of every effort, I could not keep my thoughts quiet as I sat at my work. The mirrors seemed to reflect and reflect again the light of my little lamp as I had never seen them do before; strange ghostly lights and shadows appeared to fit through the room, and whenever I chanced to look up, I was haunted by the dread of again seeing the face I had imagined peering behind the window-curtains. At last, I could endure the uncertainty no longer, and I forced myself to look behind every curtain in the room. It was very difficult to gain the necessary courage, but I did it, and found-nothing; nothing but thick darkness."

"And then, my child?"

"Ah! then madame came home very tired and very-" she paused, then added ingenuously, "People are often a little irritable when they are tired, and madame complained that I hurt her in arranging her hair for the night; and perhaps I did, for I was very sleepy. But, thank God! she said, Good night, God bless you, my child!' before I left her. That is such a comfort to me now!"

The rest of the story was more briefly told. Julie slept late the morning after the ball, and when she awoke she was surprised to find that the door of communication between her room and that of her mistress was still closed. Madame De l'Orme was in the habit of bolting it every night after Julie left her, but by an ingenious mechanical contrivance could, when she wished it, withdraw the bolt without rising from her bed, and in the morning it generally unfastened. When this was not the case a single tap at the door was enough to break the light sleep of the comtesse. But

summons without receiving an answer. Ten o'clock struck, half-past ten, and there was no sound in the chamber. Eleven came, and Julie, alarmed at the length of her mistress's slumbers, determined on a desperate step to relieve her anxiety. She could obtain no assistance from without, for the key of the staircase-door was in her mistress's possession. She was therefore a prisoner in her own room, from which there was but one mode of egress, and that so perilous that only her present circumstances could have induced her to attempt it. Her window and those of the next room opened on a very narrow balcony, or rather ledge of stone, and along this ledge it was barely possible for her to creep, and by means of the key of her own window, which accident had previously taught her fitted the others also, make her way into Madame de l'Orme's chamber. It was a dangerous attempt; one too which, if successful, might draw down upon her her mistress's anger. Still she would willingly risk that, if she were sure that the balcony could bear her weight. How frail it looked! And so high from the ground that if she fell-! Her head grew giddy at the thought, but she was a brave, unselfish girl, and her anxiety on Madame de l'Orme's account nerved her to dare the perilous passage. As she stepped cautiously from the window she almost gave up the project in despair. The ledge was scarce two feet wide, the balustrade that guarded it only eighteen inches high; but she resolutely turned her eyes from the abyss beneath, and with the key in her hand reached the other window in safety. But the key was unnecessary, the window was-open! by this discovery almost caused her to overbalance herself, but the instinct of self-preservation taught her to clutch at the window-frame for support. She regained her equilibrium, thrust aside the closed curtain, and entered the

room.

The start occasioned

All was still as death; but as she glanced hastily round she perceived that the secretaire where Madame de l'Orme kept her money and valuable papers was open, and rifled of its contents; the jewel-casket left last night on the dressing-table was gone, and the wardrobes also were open, but apparently untouched. Could this have been done without rousing so light a sleeper as her mistress? A new fear fell upon her as she felt this was impossible, and with a tremulous step she advanced towards the bed. The curtains at its head were drawn as she was accustomed to find them in a morning, the bed-clothes were unruffled. Nothing in the whole aspect of the bed gave token of violence, and yet she hesitated to withdraw the drapery. "Madame, it is very late," she whispered. There was no She repeated the words in a louder tone, and at length ventured to touch the hand that lay placidly outside the coverlet. Its touch was sufficient that chilling peculiar touch which nothing but death can give. She tore the curtain aside the sight paralysed her.

answer.

(To be continued.)