For many successive evenings of that week did Mademoiselle de Montalembert, with her little companion, descend the narrow path which crossed those lonely rocks, and pace the shining sands which lay at their feet. No one appeared to disturb the silence of her melancholy reveries; as gazing now upon the vast arch above, now on the swelling circle beneath, she seemed searching in vain for consolation, from that drear loneliness, of which she had at length become so bitterly sensible.

Till now her life, calm and unruffled, had passed in a certain still monotony; and those simple pleasures, which nature, the mother of peace, offers to all her children, had sufficed to stir with gentle emotion, her tender and artless temper. But since the evening of the little fete, how had the colour of her life been changed!-What a tumult of sweet feelings had found birth!-when youth met youth!-tender age, tender age!—when delicacy, gentleness, and refinement, beheld intelligence, spirit, and softness combined-and more, heard the first whispered tones that awakened the answering chords in her innocent heart!

A ray, bright as heaven, illuminated the pale twilight of her horizon; illuminated, but to teach her what darkness, solitude, and destitution were there.

The girlish prattle, the careless thoughts, the idle, fleeting hours that passed unheeded by-farewell to these. Meditations sweet, yet sad, vain hopes, fruitless wishes, flattering recollections, succeeded; as soothed by the eternal lashings of the waves on those far-echoing shores, she watched the sun sinking in golden clouds to ocean's bed; and twilight gathering dimly round the hills, while over them the broad, clear moon now showed her silver shield.

Thus pensively and abstractedly walked the gentle Virginie; the little old woman might be seen following at a short distance, peeping curiously into all the crevices of the rocks, and then turning again to the water with a vexed, discontented air.

One night they had thus walked till it was very late. The sun had set, and at his setting several clouds arose suddenly; and gathering round the welkin, hung like curtains over the heavens, and caused an unusual darkness. Three or four men, apparently fishermen, were drawing a small boat to the beach; they were rude in their appearance, and their hoarse voices, coarse rough dress, the large glazed hats that covered their heads, and the pistols they wore at their belts, gave a sinister, ruffianlike air to the whole group.

The boat had approached the land, while Virginie and her attendant were at some distance from the path which would lead them to the chateau, so that this party intercepted, as it were, their return.

The sudden darkness had startled the young lady-and,

turning round, she walked rapidly homeward, and was about to pass the group who were busy unloading the boat.

"Hallo qui va la," said a rough, hoarse voice, "who's there at this time of night? Spies!"

"No, no, not spies," cried a second.

"Not so sure of that. But if they are not spies, they are women, I suppose, and can tell tales. Pardon, my young gentlewoman, you don't pass here."

"We must pass," said Therese, impatiently. you about? For shame!-that's mademoiselle!"

"What are

"And if it be mademoiselle, what's that to us? Do you think we want to have the old marquis about our ears? He lies perdu up there, quiet enough; his daughter shan't go and make him look about him."

"Let me pass, I beg of you," said Virginie, very much terrified: "it gets late-I wish to go home."

"And pray, young madam, what keeps you out so late? Are you waiting to meet your Werter ?" said the first speaker, insolently. "Pity he does not appear. But come-you don't go home this night—there's business a doing that neither you nor your Werter, nor this goddess of beauty here shall interrupt; so into the boat with you-and in the morning we may be good natured enough to let you off."

"I shall not get into the boat," said Virginie, resolutely, though she trembled in every limb.

"You won't get into the boat? We shall see who's master then," said the man.

And laying hold of her arm he began to push her towards the vessel.

"How dare you! how dare you!" vociferated Therese, perfectly out of her senses, with terror and rage at this insult offered to a being whom she cherished and protected as a child, and honoured as little less than a divinity.

"What are you about?-how dare you touch the hem of her garment? Let her go-let her go!" with the gestures of a fury, or by the powers above, I swear I'll call-I'll call for something shall make you repent of this insolence."

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And pitching her voice as high as ever voice was sounded, she uttered a clear, shrill, lengthened cry, that pierced the very rocks, and must have been heard for miles along the shore.

She had counted upon the superstition of these kind of people, and not entirely without reason, for the man who was roughly shaking the delicate arm he held, and dragging forward his prey, by this time almost stunned with terror, made a sort of pause.

"Help, oh heavens and earth!" repeated Therese, and drawing in her breath she uttered another cry, if possible still more shrill and piercing, and then with a scream between terror and delight,

"I told ye I'd call something," she cried-" and—and don't you see it coming? You had better be off."

The wrack at that moment suddenly opened, and a white cold light fell upon one part of the sands, over which a dark figure was seen rapidly approaching.

"Do you see it coming?" reiterated Therese; "do you see it?"

The men, who, like all their lawless trade, were excited by terrors of the imagination, and who were not ignorant of the reputation for powers rather more than legitimate, which the singular manners of Therese had obtained for her, in that superstitious neighbourhood, now ran to their boat; while Therese, half frightened at the result of her own efforts, shrieked again, with something like real terror, as the figure continued hastily advancing towards them.

But Virginie sprang forward.

She was in the arms of Victor.

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'I am safe," she cried, and fainted on his breast.

"My love! my life! my angel! what is this? Yes, you are safe," cried he, folding his arms round her in rapture; as lifting her from the ground, he pressed her to his bosom while he bent his head over her pale face.

"Oh heavens on earth! M. de Vermont, is it you?" said Therese, quite out of breath; "I really, when I saw you through the white light-I did not think it was you. But let us lose no time. Can you carry her?"

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Carry her!" said Victor, pressing her to his breast.

"Then do, for heaven's sake. These men may returnthey are returning. Let us get under the shelter of the rocks, and so steal home."

"Steal home !-but her father-"

"Oh, he will know little about it."

"Does her father then neglect her so entirely ?" said Victor, indignantly; and he pressed his cheek to hers, with something of that tenderness which a mother feels for a neglected child.

Victor carried his burden under the shadow of the overhanging cliffs.

By this time she was recovering her senses.

She opened her eyes-they met his-one look-it was enough-all was confessed.

He bent down his face to hers.

"Heaven bless you!"

"I am better now," said she; "I can walk; let me make haste home. These terrible men may return."

"Let them if they dare," said Victor, fiercely. "Yet no! -that is nonsense. We had better not risk an encounter; but you cannot walk yet?"

“Oh, I can, I can," disengaging herself.

He put her arm under his and hurried her forward; The

rese followed with a swiftness quite inconsistent with her apparent age and infirmity.

They soon gained the path that led up the steeps, and were approaching the green enclosure of the garden, when Victor slackened his pace. He took the hand that rested on his arm.

"And are we," said he, "even after this to part as strangers? We who were one, even before we were born?-remember that. We who were united-was it not so, my Virginie?—the first moment that we met. Will you make me believe myself so hateful, that the close walls of your old mansion are more welcome to you than the sweet air of heaven, because I share it? Or will you incur any danger rather than allow me at least the happiness of watching you -of being your unseen protector-your unmarked, but guardian angel? How can you fear me? Why should you hate me?"

"Hate you! Ah, M. de Vermont !"

"Then you will walk among the hills to-morrow? Don't make me believe that I am depriving you of air and exercise, or I am gone-for you must not go again upon the beach.”

She made no answer; they were at the garden gate-he pressed her hand ere he quitted it, and she and Therese

went in.

Victor was soon down the hill, across the brook, and in his own little chamber.

He opened the casement and looked out on the still and pleasant scene, for the clouds had rolled away, and all was calm as was his own breast. With purposes right and honourable, his best feelings excited, his best affections gratified, he sat down to write to his friend.

A generous passion seems necessary to complete the formation of the moral being. Man is but an imperfectly developed sketch, as it were, till those strong affections are called into action which belong to the serious relations of life. Till he ceases to exist for himself, for selfish pleasures, and vain fleeting excitements, and placing his heart in the keeping of another, learns for that other to live. Then life and its concerns lose their frivolity; their empty, aimless character, and first begin to acquire a deep and earnest interest.

There is something so unsatisfactory in providing merely for our own well-being, that generous natures turn reluctant from the task, and spurn the thousand minutia which make the chief business of every day as sordid trifles, unworthy of their regard. But when others, and those others dependant and cherished beings, rest for happiness upon our efforts, things assume a new aspect. Mental and moral power, time and circumstance, acquire a genuine value: the trifler learns the importance of what he neglected, the romancer

the value of that which he despised, and a serious desire to improve opportunity, to improve himself, to protect, provide for, and exalt those so tenderly cherished, renders every detail interesting, every moment important.

Wilhelm, for his boy's sake, rejoiced in the intended purchase. The longing of the child for cherries and berries, the season of which was at hand, brought to his own mind the days of his own youth, and the manifold duties of a father, to prepare, to procure, and to maintain for his family a constant series of enjoyments.

"With what interest he viewed the buildings? How keenly he contemplated repairing what had been neglected, restoring what had fallen! He no longer looked upon the world with the eyes of a bird of passage-everything was to be completed for his boy-everything that he erected was to last for several generations.

"In this sense his apprenticeship was ended; with the feelings of a father, he had acquired the virtues of a citizen. He felt this, and nothing could exceed his joy-while Nature in her own kindly manner thus trained him to all that he required to be...."

Goëthe Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship. It was with far less than his usual romance, but with far more than his usual depth of feeling, that Victor now wrote to Eugene.

VICTOR TO EUGENE.

You have heard little of me for the last week or two; but now my destiny is irrevocably fixed. Mademoiselle de Montalembert is to be my wife.

I beseech you, therefore, without delay, to see my agent, and inquire at what I may fairly estimate the value of my property, for I protest I never took the trouble to ask. I spent a good deal of money I know; but as it always came when I wanted it, and old Delfons seemed to take a pleasure in managing my affairs, I let him have everything his own way. But now it is quite a different matter; I must take care to provide the sufficient means for making this dear creature a little happier than she yet has been.

If I cannot get to see this old marquis, I can at least write to him, and of course shall be very explicit with regard to these matters.

I wish that you could find any one that knows anything about him, and could give one a sort of introduction; Therese and Madeleine are, perhaps, more easily satisfied by a fancied resemblance-though, as you well know, a genuine resemblance enough-than the marquis may be; and he