come long letters full of the distresses of the French women in London. The warmhearted countess can scarcely eat her dinner for thinking of the many poor émigrés who have no dinner to eat." The anecdotes she tells of the suffering and generous self-devotion of the French families in which she interests herself, are very touching. I have learned, principally from François, that nothing could exceed the feeling of enthusiastic gratitude with which the Earl and Countess of Carleton were regarded by the French, of all ranks, in London at that time. I find the first mention of François himself in one of the Countess's letters during the following year.

"I have never yet mentioned the De Mervilles. That is a sad story. They come from Picardy, and are a younger branch of a good family. I do not know how Frederick became acquainted with them first; but I suspect his father, the wicked lord, practised some of his wickedness upon them; seduced the daughter by a promise of marriage, or something of that kind, which I think it better for all parties not to inquire minutely about. Then, when Frederick knew of this, after his father's death, he was anxious to make any reparation in his power (I do not know, remember; but I am almost sure it was so). He went to Amiens, where the De Mervilles lived (this was long before our marriage), and seems to have won their profound esteem and gratitude. I never heard him speak of them till about a month ago, when he told me that they had arrived in London, and that they were persons in whose fate he took a special interest. Their story is very sad. There is an old father, almost helpless from imbecility; a daughter, about thirty, who is insane; and a son, François, a young man of twenty. François' conduct is exemplary. He wished to become a priest, and studied at St. Omer's for some years. About two years ago his mother died, and his father and sister were left without any one to take charge of them. Frederick offered to pay amply for proper attendance on the two invalids. When he told me this, he added that 'it was no more than his duty to do that, since poor Madeleine's illness was the consequence of the late earl's unprincipled conduct.

However, it seems that the pride, or the delicacy, or the filial piety of François forbade his acceptance of my lord's offer. He determined to give up his profession and his hopes of advancement in life, and devote himself to his father and sister as long as they lived. He was known to hold loyal opinions; and during an outbreak of the revolutionary party at Amiens their small house was burned. Poor François had great difficulty in getting his father and sister out of the flames. Afterwards, he had no means of supporting them, for their little all was destroyed, with the exception of a small pension which Frederick had, some years before, settled on Madeleine. François wrote to ask his advice. Frederick, with his usual benevolence, wrote to François de Merville immediately, advising him to bring the poor old man and Madeleine to London, and offering him a good salary as his own secretary and general agent among the French emigrants here.-Not before he wanted such assistance, let me tell you, Bessy ;—he has business enough among them to employ two or three secretaries. When François entered upon his work here, I was disposed to view him with favourable eyes, for he took a weight of French correspondence off my hands; but I soon began to like the young man for his own sake. He is very unlike any young French animal I ever saw is calm, grave, and incapable of gaiety. The only relaxation he gives himself, in this house, is playing with Frank and Arundel; he is fond of children, and the boys are becoming much attached to him. At home, poor fellow, he can have but little pleasure. I have been with Frederick to their lodging at Chelsea. It was a melancholy thing to see the childish old man-once a sculptor of great merit, Frederick says-and the imbecile daughter; the latter, as inert and helpless as the former, and with a far more painful expression in her handsome face. She heeds no one but François, whose never-failing kindness and tenderness seem to have made some impression on her. When he comes into the room she looks up and smiles ;-when he speaks to her, she looks eagerly into his face as if she were straining every fibre of her poor brain to understand what he says; and

then murmurs rapidly-' Ah! c'est ça !—Bien, bien! mon petit François!' or 'Mais, oui, sans doute! tu as raison, mon frère.' She rarely makes any other reply. I was surprised to find her dressed with scrupulous neatness, her fine hair arranged with great taste, and her gown fitting to admiration. She was seated by the open window of their little parlour, busily engaged in the manufacture of a head-dress of ribbon. When I watched the hands only, without looking at the face, I saw she was a clever milliner;-it is always a great pleasure to me to see hands moving dexterously at any sort of work. It struck me that she might be made to earn money, while she amused herself; and on our way home I proposed to Frederick that I should send her some millinery to do for me. He smiled sadly, and replied, that whatever I might send, and however clearly François might try to make her understand that the materials were to be made after this or that pattern, and for another person, poor Madeleine would appropriate them to herself. He told me that vanity and the love of dress,-feelings which had led to the loss of her reason,—still remained in full activity. In the worst stages of her illness she had never neglected her personal appearance; he had never seen her otherwise than bien mise. She devoted her whole time to dressing herself, sitting at the window to be admired, and altering her clothes to the newest fashion she saw in the streets.

"I consider poor Madeleine's insanity but a few degrees stronger than that of Miss S-, who is always buying and altering dresses;-and who sees nothing in any assembly but the new fashions and materials. When her brother died the other day, she had no time to grieve, because 'there was all her mourning to be selected,' and 'it was,' she said, 'a very troublesome business. She hardly knew what was proper to wear for a brother-whether two tucks of crape or three,' etc. 'However, it was a mercy she was obliged to think of these things, because it took her thoughts from the sad event!' etc. The woman of the house where they lodge is very kind to her and her father: she prepares their meals, and takes charge of

them while François is at our house, which is from ten till five every day. Old De Merville must have been very hand

some. He still shows a love of the art to which he devoted his early life; for he is always carving pieces of marble or common stone into the form of vine leaves and bunches of grapes. It seems that he will execute no other designs. His grapes and vine-leaves in relievo are wonderfully beautiful; but I wish he would do something else. This love of the grape looks suspicious."

CHAPTER X.

LITTLE MAGGIE HASTINGS.

"A little child! a limber elf!"

COLERIDGE.

ARUNDEL RABY was attacked by a severe illness a short time before the completion of his seventh year. then at Carleton Castle.

The family was

My grandfather writes thus to his sister at that time.

"Dr. Ward walked down this morning to tell us that the Ichild was rather better. Our young ones were gladdened by the news. Little Maggie immediately asked if she might go and see him. Her inquiry was so solemn and earnest, that we could not help smiling. The doctor patted her on the head, and said, 'Yes, my dear; very soon;' upon which she ran away (as we thought) to play. About two hours later, after the doctor had gone, and I was quietly seated in my study, Sophia came in, in some excitement, asking, 'Do you know anything of Maggie? She is nowhere to be found!' Seeing her uneasiness, I took up my hat and searched the garden, stable, and out-houses in vain. The servants and the other children were seeking, high and low, in the house, with a like result. After laughing at my wife's fears, I began to share them. As she is given to odd ways, delighting in doing what no other child of her age and sex would think of,

I looked up into trees, and on the angles of the walls. As I returned through the village, after a search, I met young Green, the keeper's son, and asked him if he had 'seen one of my children anywhere on the road.'

"He replied, that he had seen 'the little Missy with the brown eyes, away up in the park!'

"In the park!' I exclaimed. 'What was she doing there?' "She was just toddling along, straight to the castle, sir,' he replied. 'I stared a bit to see such a little creature out by herself, you may be sure; and I went up to her, and asked where she was going. She looked at me for all the world like a brave little woman, with those oncommon eyes of hers, and she says quite demure: "I'm going to a castle to see a ittle Dunny."

"God bless me!' I exclaimed. 'I hope you did not leave her, Green. She is much too young to go out by herself.'

"Well, sir,' said the man, 'so I thought, and was for bringing ber back; but that did not seem to suit her, at any price. She's got a will of her own, sir, that's clear; and a way of getting it, too, young as she is! The long and the short of the business is, that the little lady made me carry her up to the castle, instead of bringing her home. She prattled so pretty all the way about ittle Dunny, as she calls poor little Master Arundel, that I was quite sorry to part with her, as I did when I met the nursemaid walking with the young viscount. As soon as he saw little Missy, there was a grand shout on both sides, and I delivered Missy to Ann. Ann began to scold, but Missy persisted that a doctor said a might come and see Dunny; and then she began to cry,—pretty innocent!-and said she must, indeed she must, see ittle Dunny —she loved him so, and was so sorry. To pacify her, Ann made up her mind to take the child home to dine with them, and I promised to call at your house, sir, and tell them what had become of the young lady. I was just going there now.'

"I thanked the kind young man, and returned home with the news. In the afternoon I went off after the runaway, musing a little upon Sophia's last words-' She is little more