CATHERINE MERCIER.

ned,
are safe!"

alone testifying his amongst the suffering population of his
native city. Where danger was the great-
est, and misery the deepest, there was
Victor, battling with the floods, helping
those who seemed to have none to help
them; cheering the fearful, repressing the
And awful were the scenes
selfish.
through which he passed; streets in the
most densely populated parts of Lyons
were flooded, and in many instances the
houses washed down, oftentimes carrying
in their ruins their wretched inhabitants.
Boats containing the rescued were dashed
to pieces by the debris which were being
carried about by the raging waters; and
those who had just begun to taste the
sweetness of hope, were, with heart-rend-
ing shrieks, hurled to their death. Ceme-
teries were flooded, and the graves torn
up gave forth their dead, whose bodies,
in every stage of decay, floated in ghastly
guise upon the face of the waters. Even
with the blessed consciousness of doing
his best to lessen the suffering, Victor's
heart sickened within him.

a to the bank, and eers of the spectators. that Catherine was d by his hated rival, over his brows, and away from the spot. nked the boatmen pathy and help, took his arm, and winding protected streets of afe across one of the mained unflooded. eld her naked sword Now they were obling houses, as they rough some of the en, as they pursued ey met a fierce cury in a new channel. ad a terror-stricken I reckless that it rerength to guard his ng crushed. Misery on every side-mutibeing carried on pitals, and sounds of ir rang in their ears. and drenched, Victo her aunt's house, to allow her to speak and gratitude which uggling to express, the cloud still rested

his daughter with ad scarcely hoped to ceived her almost as rom the dead. His nd Catherine found s under the circumpected. Again and elate the tale of her cue, and the warm of Victor's bravery

ears.

had gone at once to so relieve her fears, ssary food, but he

t.

He had not slept the whole time; he only occasionally ran home to assure his anxious mother of his safety, and take some necessary food. But the fourth evening he walked wearily in.

"Mother, dear, I ought to be proud and happy, but somehow," said he putting his hand to his head, "I do not seem to care for any thing. The Emperor has been down to Lyons; I had just been getting some poor woman out of a tottering house when I was called by a gentleman, and obeying the summons, I found myself in the presence of his Majesty, who was standing in the midst of the floods half-way up to his waist in water, and by his side was my commanding officer, and he spoke a few words to the Emperor; and then his Majesty called me to him, and decorated me with the Cross of the Legion of Honor, for what he called my gallantry in saving the "inondis."* And he farther said, that hearing of my conduct at the Malakoff,

d he, "I have saved fe has been granted e are thousands of children in danger ery gratitude I must succor them.” ights did he labor

he would give me a commission; and so
your son, dearest mother, will be Lieute-
nant Chapereau," said he, smiling; "but
somehow I do not seem to care for it as
much as I ought to do. My head is so
bad," added he, throwing himself on the
ground, and laying his head in his mother's
lap, "I feel as if I had no strength left."

Inondis-Sufferers from an inundation.

Sh

burni beati

was t mind. throu

wet a him t

only fever.

WI

ward. listen physi seriou dispo of Ca Vict

alrea

and girl

know

ing

to do of th prog and H warm to nu It i

of a streng little

to gr tosse But

one

wher

or o

that but

turns

nigh

the

dead thro she

her

word

supp still fro, the f

At Victo that

revea from

er hand upon his head, it was | knelt by her son. As the morning dawned he opened his eyes, and said,

; she felt his pulse, it was lly. She saw at once what tter-over-fatigue, sorrow of readful scenes he had passed d the constant exposure to ld, had been too much for r; and her gallant son-her -was stricken with a deadly

"Mother, where am I?"

Oh! the joy of that voice; it was his own accent, though weak and trembling. She gave him some nourishment, and with a few loving words he fell asleep again. The danger was passed-her son was spared.

Catherine continued in her office of nurse, for he was very much reduced, and required constant care, and though all excitement was strictly forbidden, and he was scarcely allowed to speak, it seemed to do him good to watch her as as she moved lightly about the room.

therine called an hour afterfound the anxious mother the minute directions of a vho said that it was a very Though Jeannie was rather be angry with her, the sight e's misery, when she heard of ness, and found that he was onscious, touched her heart; wn accord she asked the poor e and help her to nurse him, at it was what she was long-room. Catherine thankfully agreed d went home to tell her father call upon her time. He was favorably, was in no danger, "Catherine, I fear this sick-room is but his sister to wait upon him, he a dull place for you. I shall tell my moroved of his daughter's going ther to invite M. Lubin to spend the evenr brave preserver. sad to watch by the sick-beding here to cheer you."

One afternoon when he had recovered a little strength, he was sitting propped up by pillows. The window was open, and the fresh spring air was blowing in, while the warm sunshine illumined the Catherine was arranging a bouquet of flowers which she had just brought in, when Victor called her to him, and said,

"Do not be cruel, Victor; M. Lubin in the prime of youth and is nothing to me. Did he save my o see the body helpless as a life?" -the hands vainly endeavoring ything-the restless head that side to side-the parched lips. dder far when the patient is we love best upon earthe issue depends our happiness rest sorrow. Very silent was oom-few were their words, nt were their prayers. By nie and Catherine sat up at it was a slight consolation to o try by every loving care to bitter thoughts which were n her mind, and which, when he might die without hearing on of folly, and speaking one rgiveness, were well-nigh inDay succeeded day, and onscious invalid tossed to and hour becoming weaker; yet d not abate.

"And the fact of my having had that great happiness is to weigh down the scale even against M. Lubin and all his advantages."

"Certainly, if the scale had not been weighed down long before by something else."

he night of the crisis came, fallen into a heavy sleep which, when ended, might Forst. Catherine had retired ed, lest, on first waking, the - might startle him; Jeannie

"And what was that something else?" cried he, drawing her toward him, "what wonderful thing could out-balance M. Lubin-his fashion, his fortune, his jewelry-the carriage he would provide you, the rich dresses you would be enabled to buy-what was it ?"

She looked into his eager face, her eyes were filled with tears, and with a trembling voice, as she laid her head upon his shoulder, she said

"Forgive all my folly, Victor, for it was-Love."

"My own Catherine," whispered he, "we have been in great danger, and yet we have been spared to each other. The rain has ceased from the earth, and the clouds have passed away. Oh! let no more shadows ever come again between thee and me."

PTER I.

A TALE.

their latticed windows, all afford unequi-
vocal symptoms of old age; yet of that
old age, which Cicero so highly admires,
in which there is something of youth-in
quo est aliquid juventutis-for they are
all either rose-embowered or covered with
clustering honeysuckle, and their little
gardens, visible over low moss-crowned
walls, are full of marigolds and stock, and
wall-flower and sweet-pea, as if nature,
ever youthful, would fain cast the charm
of rejuvenescence over the frail and per-
ishing work of human hands.

my lovely hamlets of
commend us to Wood-
name is suggestive of
ranquillity, and never
erited. It occupies a
n the banks of a river
picturesque districts of
cessible from the pub-
narrow lane, but, in
sylvan loveliness does
xhibit! On one side
by huge walnut-trees, It was toward the close of a lovely day
uries; on the other, it in June that a traveling-carriage, drawn
ty hedge of hawthorn, by four horses, whose jaded appearance
ring up innumerable indicated that they had performed a long
their fragrant greet- journey, turned from the highway into
g wayfarer. Beneath the sequestered lane we have referred to.
opy of the walnut-trees The vehicle was covered with traveling-
extreme antiquity, (for boxes, of various shapes and kinds, and
ered with mosses and on the rumble was a female servant, whom
it (for it is scarcely fatigue had evidently overpowered, and
ht) one may look far who was fast asleep. The carriage had
ond, or contemplate a come from the nearest railway station,
which murmurs away some twenty miles off, with the same
ecesses, and at length horses, it having been impossible to ob-
eath a Gothic bridge, tain any others by the way. Its interior
my to join the greater was occupied by two sisters, both young,
y below. Woodthorpe, and, although differing from each other
leads, is an ancient as in some respects, possessing no small de-
d place, and contains gree of personal charms. They had come
of the olden time. Its all the way from the great metropolis, and
urch—an edifice of the were evidently wearied with so long a
"style-was once an journey. As the carriage turned into the
reat Abbey of Bolton; lane, one of the young ladies addressed
led by some pious soul her companion.
ward VI., is a quaint, "We must be near our destination now,
; and its vicarage-in Gertrude," she said, with a tone of weari-
t abode for the mes-ness, looking at her watch. "We have
been three hours upon this interminable
road! Heigh-ho! I am really very tired.
But where are we going now? Oh! I
presume this lane must be the approach
to the mansion of our primitive aunt."

-is touched with the ect. Even the dozen h our hamlet is comantique studies for an ir thatch, their walls,

ing th able incide ing,

y it is, Elizabeth, but we shall | quisite to the comprehension of the course ' replied the younger of the of this narrative. etting down the carriage win!" she continued, "what a ! Do look at those lovely 1 full blossom! Well, I must dthorpe be any thing like the ich this quiet lane gives, I onder that Aunt Hartley is : seclusion."

onsense, Gertrude," was the d with something not unlike 'How can you talk so? What happiness can there be in such ? No balls, no theater, noutely nothing! Why, one ll be a vegetable, as live in tranquillity. I really wonder

Woodthorpe Hall-or the "Old Hall," as the villagers were wont to call itwas the manor-house of the fine estate that lay around it. The late proprietor, Mr. Hartley, had left it as the residence of his widow, who, possessed of a comfortable jointure, in addition to the interest of a large fortune of her own, had continued to reside there. She had no family, and, although still in the prime of life, she preferred, to all those scenes of gayety she was so well fitted to adorn, the rural quiet of her beautiful residence, where she devoted her whole time to the labor of doing good. There was not a cottage within many a mile of the benevolent lady's abode the inmates of which had not, in some way or other, been benefited by her ready and active benevolence. Her two nieces, Elizabeth and Gertrude, were the daughters of her only brother, Mr. Warburton. He had married an heiress of large fortune and aristocratic connections, but had not long enjoyed the happiness of domestic life, his wife having died a few years after his marriage, leaving the two infants to his charge. From the period of his becoming a widower, Mrs. Hartley had seen but little of her brother. He had sought relief from the bitter sorrow his bereavement occasioned by plunging into the gayest society of the metropolis, and this was foreign to Mrs. Hartley's inclinations. She had seen her beautiful nieces but once during a visit some years prior to the time we are now referring to; and it was with extreme delight that she beheld them again on their ime, indeed," said Mrs. Hart-visit to Woodthorpe-a visit of which she "no less than some six had, to her surprise, received no intimation.

beth!" was the only reply to
ly; but it was uttered in a
ecating tone of voice.
nutes more, and the carriage
through the hamlet, to the
rment of its simple inhabit-
tered a gateway leading into
e, and, after a drive across a
ept, as well as extensive lawn,
t the door of "Woodthorpe

unexpected pleasure! And eally come to see me at last!" Irs. Hartley, after cordially er fair relatives.

we have, dear aunt," said Gerurton; "and I am sure we been glad had we been able ore. But how well you look g a time. It is quite an age you last."

;

I what an alteration that 'long
ade in both of you, my dear
were both quite children when
ou. I am sure I should not
you, had we met by accident.
5 papa?
You have not tra-
surely ?"

g

ladies explained that it had ry for them to do so, as their not possibly accompany them, s. Hartley for particulars to a they presented to her. Leavs to the various and innumerinquiries and explanations he occasion of such a meetst now present our readers etrospective observations re-l

Elizabeth and Gertrude Warburton were eighteen and sixteen years of age respectively. They had received an excellent education; they possessed a large share of personal attractions; they were both naturally amiable; but they had not been brought up under the care of a mother; their father was almost always from home; they were, moreover, heiresses, and thus there were many circumstances calculated to render them proud and wayward. Mrs. Hartley had considerable suspicion of this, and had learned to regard Elizabeth especially an enfant gaté.

The letter which her nieces presented