

Transcribed from the 1849-1850 Darton and Co. edition by David Price,
ccx074@pglaf.org

{The Young Lord's accident: p0.jpg}





THE YOUNG LORD,
AND
Other Tales.


BY MRS. CROSLAND,
(LATE CAMILLA TOULMIN.)

TO WHICH IS ADDED,





VICTORINE DUROCHER.


BY MRS. SHERWOOD.

LONDON:
DARTON AND CO., HOLBORN HILL.
1849-50.

LONDON:
GEORGE WOODFALL AND SON,
ANGEL COURT, SKINNER STREET.

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THE YOUNG LORD;
AND
THE TRIAL OF ADVERSITY.


BY MRS.  NEWTON CROSLAND,
(LATE CAMILLA TOULMIN.)



THE YOUNG LORD.


   "Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust do
   corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.

   "But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor
   rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.

   "For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."--ST.
   MATT. vi. 19, 20, 21.

"How can we reward the little boy who has so honestly brought me the
bracelet I lost at church yesterday?" said Mrs. Sidney to her only son
Charles, who was now passing the Midsummer vacation with his widowed
mother, at a pretty cottage in Devonshire, which had been the home of his
early years.

"I do not think people should be rewarded for common honesty," said
Charles; "and the clasp contained such an excellent likeness of papa,
whom every one in the village knew, that it would have been unsafe as
well as dishonest for him not to have delivered it up."

"I am sorry to find, Charles," said Mrs. Sidney, "that school has not
weakened those selfish feelings which have so often caused me pain.  You
seem to me to think that every trifling gift I bestow upon another is
robbing you; and, worse than all, I find you constantly wresting phrases
from their real meaning to answer your own purposes.  Thus, I agree with
you that people should not look upon common honesty as anything beyond a
simple duty which they would be culpable _not_ to perform.  But I am as
well assured that honesty, even in this world, meets with its reward, as
I am that it is our duty, when we find the poor and uneducated
distinguished by this quality, to show our sense of it, and so make
ourselves the instruments of this earthly reward, by every means in our
power.  I addressed you, Charles, on the subject, because I fondly hoped
it would give you pleasure to offer some assistance in the matter;
besides which, I thought that you might be more likely to hit upon
something which in a pleasing manner would be of service to a boy of your
own age--although only a cottager's child--than I could be.  I am
disappointed in this expectation, however, and can think of no other plan
than giving him a small present in money, with some of your old clothes;
he is, if anything, less than you, so there is very little doubt of the
latter being of use to him."

Now it happened that the honest little boy, who was named Thomas Bennett,
had stood in the hall the whole time, and thus overheard the
conversation.  I am sure that you cannot wonder that he remembered it,
with feelings far removed from love or gratitude to Charles Sidney.

Any one who observed Charles Sidney, while his mamma examined his
wardrobe to find what clothes she might choose to spare, would have been
shocked at perceiving the selfish expression of his countenance.

It seemed absolute pain for him to part even with articles which, he
having quite outgrown them, were utterly useless to him, and which very
likely the moths would soon have destroyed: for to accumulate and keep
made the rule of his life.  You may imagine what a serious trouble this
unhappy disposition of her son was to Mrs. Sidney, who felt perhaps the
more from contrasting his character with that of an elder brother, who
had died from a lingering illness about two years previously, and who had
been equally distinguished for a generous nature, which had sometimes led
him to the opposite extreme of improvidence.

Indeed, poor Frank had been known to debar himself of necessary comforts
for the sake of assisting others.  His pocket money was given away within
an hour of its being received; his books were often torn or lost, from
being indiscriminately lent; and the cold he caught, which led to his
fatal illness, had been occasioned by his leaving a warm upper coat,
which he had been accustomed to wear, to add to the bed covering of a
poor sick child, whom he had gone out one cold winter's day to visit.
Now, though it was impossible for any one to help dearly loving so
amiable and generous a character as Frank, his parents had found it
necessary gently to reprove his exceeding and indiscriminate generosity,
by pointing out to him that it was even wrong when it tended to injure
his own health, or to encroach on the rights of others.  On such
occasions Mr. and Mrs. Sidney had explained to him that their income was
limited, so that their acts of benevolence must consist less in absolute
gifts of money (alas! some persons think there is no other way of doing
good), than in the bestowal of time and advice on the poor, and a degree
of judgment in the distribution of what they had to give, which would
make that little of its greatest service.

Charles had often been present at these conversations, and the allusions
Mrs. Sidney made to his fault of wresting phrases from their real
meaning, had reference to the evil manner in which he applied these
warnings to himself--so unnecessary for one of his character: warnings
which nothing but the indiscriminate profusion of Frank could have
tempted Mr. and Mrs. Sidney to utter.  I mention these circumstances
because I am afraid we are all too much inclined to find excuses for our
faults; to do which, we generally apply maxims suitable only to the
opposite extreme of our own failings.  And this was precisely the case
with the little selfish miser.  The death of Mr. Sidney, which had
occurred suddenly, had followed quickly upon that of Frank; but, amid all
the widow's affliction, she never forgot the sorrow that Charles's
selfish disposition occasioned her.  There was no longer even the shadow
of an excuse for parsimony, as the inheritance which would have been
divided between the two brothers would now devolve on the only son.
Charles knew this: he knew that he was provided with a sufficient fortune
to finish his education admirably, to send him to college, and start him
in a profession.  But this made no difference in his disposition; he
continued to hoard money and books, and everything that came in his way,
as if each individual article were the last he ever could expect to have.

It so happened that Charles had several cousins, the children of a
younger brother of Mr. Sidney, and whose characters formed a strong
contrast to his own.  Their father had been a clergyman, and though they
had been bereaved of him when very young, they had never forgotten the
lessons of piety he had bequeathed to them.

The two Mrs. Sidneys were also sisters, and having married two brothers,
the families seemed as it were doubly cemented.

Now Mr. William Sidney, the younger brother, having five children,
between whom his fortune was divided, these cousins had each just one-
fifth of Charles's expectations, and, of course, Mrs. William Sidney was
obliged to limit many of their present indulgences in due proportion to
her income.

And yet I need scarcely tell you that William, the eldest son, who was
about the same age as Charles, and his younger brothers and sisters, were
a thousand times happier than their cousin; and, even with their limited
means, did more good to others in a month than Charles did in a year.

In the first place, they were kind and generous to each other.  A book, a
toy, any source of gratification that was opened to one, was always made
the property of the whole family; so that a present or kindness to one of
these children, was like bestowing it on five.  Then the little girls,
Fanny and Lucy, were so clever and industrious, that they would make
clothes for the poor, either by purchasing coarse but warm materials with
their own money, or from cast off frocks of their own, which their mamma
gave them permission so to employ.  Like all those who think more of
other persons than themselves, and who are constantly enjoying the
pleasure of doing good, they were light-hearted and happy; while their
cousin Charles, who thought of nothing but his own selfish interests, was
three days out of the four in bad spirits and bad temper.

"How I should like to rummage out that closet," said William one day to
his cousin, when he had chanced to have a peep into his receptacle for
what he had hoarded.

"Would you, indeed," replied Charles, "I can tell you there is nothing
there which would be of the least use to you."

"That is good," returned William, with a hearty laugh; "not that I want
anything you have stowed away, but if it could be of no use to me, what
use is it to you? answer me that, Charles!"

"I tell you there is nothing there but old childish toys and baby books,
things that I have not looked at for years."

"Then why don't you turn them out, and give them to some children, or let
the little creatures have a scramble for them?  It would be capital fun,
that it would.  Suppose you were to give them to the young Bennetts; I
told them the other day I would beg some of your old toys for them.  It
would be such a pleasure, I am sure, to make them a present.  Poor
children, you know, have seldom anything of the kind."

"How you talk!"

"How I talk!" continued William, "to be sure; besides, I hate waste, and
it is just as much waste to shut things up which might be of use, as it
would be to burn them; more, I think, for if they make firewood, that is
proving of some use.  Now don't be such a miser, Charles, do turn them
out."

"I shall do no such thing!" exclaimed Charles, in an angry tone, "and as
for your extravagance, it is quite shocking; I wonder what you think is
to become of you when you are a man."

"I tell you what I expect," replied William, throwing some apples from
his pocket out of window to a poor child who was passing; "what I expect
is, to have to work very hard for my living, and, as I am the eldest, I
look upon it that I ought to do something for mamma, and the girls into
the bargain.  But for all that I hope I shall never turn a miserly screw.
Why, when God gives us health, food, clothing, and lodging, don't you
think that hoarding and hoarding, instead of dispensing the blessings,
and performing such acts of kindness as may be in our power to bestow, is
like doubting God's goodness and mercy for the future?"

"One would think you were preaching," said Charles, with a sneer.

"Well, never mind if I am; it was only yesterday I was reading one of
dear papa's sermons, in which he quotes one of the most beautiful
chapters in the New Testament, the 12th of St. Luke, in which our Saviour
speaks of the ravens, which 'God feedeth,' though 'they neither sow nor
reap;' and of the 'lilies, how they grow.'  And HE emphatically says,
'Seek not ye what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, neither be ye of
doubtful mind.  For all these things do the nations of the world seek
after; and your Father knoweth ye have need of all these things.  But
rather seek ye the kingdom of God, _and all these things shall be added
unto you_.'"

"Besides," continued William, after a slight pause, "it seems to me that
nature is constantly repeating the lesson which Scripture teaches us.  See
how, year after year, the blades of wheat spring up, and the fruits of
the earth ripen, as if to warn us that we should distribute the good
things God provides us with, and wholly trust that he will continue to
send us all things that are needful."

"Pray did you find that in the sermon, also?" asked Charles.

"Perhaps I did."

"Did it say anything about the ten talents--where we are told that unto
every one that hath shall be given, but from him that hath not shall be
taken away even that which he hath?" replied Charles, with an air of
triumph.

"Do you understand the text you have quoted?" asked William, mildly.

"I suppose so, I should think it rather taught people to increase their
stores than anything else."

"Then let me tell you that you are quite wrong, for that was a text I
used to hear papa explain very often, that it should never be applied to
worldly possessions.  But those who pray for, and seek by every means to
acquire, heavenly grace will surely find it bestowed on them; while those
who neglect to cultivate the spirit of religion will as surely find any
feelings of piety they may once have experienced in like manner depart
from them.  Every human being has the power, more or less, of doing good:
and his means and opportunities are also among the 'talents' with which
he is intrusted, and for which he must account at last."

"Have you done preaching?" yawned the little miser.

"Yes, for I am afraid you are beyond my teaching."  And so the cousins
parted.

Charles sat musing for a little while.  "How happy William seems!"
thought he; "and yet I dare say at this moment he has not half-a-crown he
can call his own.  It is very fine of him, indeed, to talk of turning out
the closet, he who has got nothing to keep."

And so reasoned the selfish boy, amusing himself with gazing upon a shelf
full of baby toys he could take no pleasure in using, but yet which he
had not the heart to give away; and then he jingled a money-box, which
was heavy enough to tell there were many, many coins inside, and yet he
drew from his pocket a shilling, which he slipped through the narrow
chink, thus adding to his useless store.

Oh! sad it is to believe that no thought of gratitude to the Almighty for
the blessings with which he was surrounded; no prayer for guidance from
on high rose in his heart; no thought of the duty of cultivating the
"talents" which had fallen to his share.

Two or three years passed away, and notwithstanding the exhortations of
Mrs. Sidney, and the bright examples of his cousins, no amendment was
perceived in the character of Charles.  Most persons who act improperly,
as I have said before, endeavour to find an excuse for their conduct, and
he formed no exception to the rule.  His apology for his parsimony was,
that he was saving every pound he could accumulate to help pay for his
college education when he should be sent thither.  A poor, shallow
excuse, for his mother often assured him how little he needed such mean
precaution, and entreated him to spend his money with proper liberality.
Mrs. Sidney so often shed tears on his account, that no one in the house
was much surprised to see her weeping on one important occasion.

Charles was at this time about fifteen, when, entering his mother's
morning room somewhat suddenly, he found her in tears, with an open
letter in her hand, which Charles in a moment remarked had a black border
and a black seal.

"What is the matter, mamma?" said he "is any one we know dead?"

"Yes, Charles," she replied; "I am sorry to say three relations, whom,
though you may have heard of, you have never seen, have been suddenly
removed from this world by the upsetting of a boat in which they had gone
on a pleasure excursion."

"Not Lord Sereton and his sons?" exclaimed Charles, clasping his hands,
while an expression of anything but sorrow passed over his countenance.

"Yes, Charles," replied Mrs. Sidney, after a moment's pause, "I am sorry
to say they are no more."

"Sorry, mamma," shrieked the youth, in a voice of gaiety that,
considering the circumstances, was horrible.  "_Sorry_, mamma, why then I
. . . I . . . am . . ."

"Yes, _you_ are Lord Sereton now."

"And shall I have all the money, mamma, and the houses, and that
beautiful park which I once went to see, and the carriages, and the
horses, and the--the--all the beautiful things?  Oh, yes, I shall, I know
I shall.  I am so glad--I am so happy.  Lord Sereton was only papa's
third cousin, I know, but I am the next heir."

"And do you feel no shock"--said Mrs. Sidney, rising and laying her hand
on her son's shoulder, while she spoke almost with a shudder;--"do you
feel no shock at the awful sudden deaths of three estimable
individuals--no compassion for the bereaved widow and mother? and, beyond
all, do you not feel deeply conscious of the additional responsibilities
and the heavy duties which become yours with this accession of wealth and
rank?  Oh, Charles, it is hard for a mother to wish such a thing for a
son, yet, unless the Most High would change your heart, I could pray that
this wealth might not be yours.  Oh, my son, let me beseech you to humble
yourself before His throne, and ask His grace and assistance."

But Charles, or as we may now call him, the young Lord Sereton, at no
time rendered anything but lip service to his God.  It is easy enough to
do this, though such prayers never mount to heaven, but fall back to the
earth from which they spring.  Prayers, to be acceptable to God, must
arise from a devout frame of mind, and be accompanied by a diligent
endeavour to acquire that grace for which we ask, while by our actions we
must show the sincerity of our hearts.  "That ye cannot serve two
masters," was fully illustrated in his case; and he, the slave of Mammon,
was lured on with the vain expectation that his new wealth would bring
happiness!

Of course, during the minority of the young lord, the guardians whom the
law appointed took care of his property and estates; but, boy as he was,
large sums of money were still at his disposal, and he was old enough to
have considerable influence with those who had legal authority over his
fortune.  His treasures, however, were a sort of "enchanted wealth,"
which, as he used it, or rather did not use it, was as valueless as a bag
of gold to the thirsty traveller in the desert, who cannot procure with
it a glass of water; and certainly happiness, according to Charles's
plan, was as completely out of his reach.

As he rode or walked over his estates, no face was there which lighted up
with grateful pleasure, as would have been the case at the approach of a
generous and kind young landlord; no, he was miserable himself, because
he never attempted to make others happy.  Tutors were to a certain degree
forced upon him by his guardians, or I really believe he would have
neglected to pursue those studies which he before followed, much more as
the means of acquiring future wealth, than for love of themselves.

And so time passed on, Mrs. Sidney often spending a week or month at her
sister's pretty cottage, where, surrounded by the kind-hearted generous
family, she could not but contrast that happy home with the splendid
misery of Sereton Hall; an abode rendered melancholy to her by its young
owner's selfish and avaricious nature.

It had been the custom for many generations, on the coming of age of the
lord or heir of Sereton Hall, to have a general feasting and merry-making
among the tenantry; an ox was roasted whole, and such rural festivities
were observed as I dare say you have often heard described, if you have
not witnessed them.

When his birthday drew near, it was with great difficulty that the young
lord could be persuaded to adhere to the old-fashioned custom; calling it
waste, profusion, and using many other words which belong to a miser's
vocabulary.

At last, however, he yielded to his friends' advice, chiefly, it is very
probable, because they represented to him that if he made himself more
unpopular than he already was, the people on his estate might find some
serious manner of showing their dislike.

The eventful day arrived.  A glorious morning dawned, which _should_ have
been ushered in by the ringing of bells, but unfortunately there was so
much difficulty in finding any one willing to perform this office in
honour of the grinding, hard-hearted young landlord, that Charles had
nearly finished a somewhat late breakfast before a feeble peal fell on
his ear.  Soon afterwards he had an interview, by appointment, with his
guardians and trustees, in which they resigned all the papers connected
with the estates.

The young miser, however, had taken care long ago to make himself
acquainted with the exact state of his finances, so that he had very
little to learn, and the business was soon transacted.

How he now rejoiced that he had not yielded to the suggestions of these
gentlemen,--who within the last two or three years had thought fit to
consult the young lord on such matters,--when they had proposed lowering
the rent of a poor farmer, or remitting, it might be, some arrears when
crops had failed, or some unforeseen misfortune happened; not yet was the
time come for the recollections of such misdeeds to torture his mind with
all the writhings of remorse.  Not yet, for in the morning of that day he
only revelled in thoughts of his vast wealth, and dreams of future
aggrandizement.

Presently his mother entered the room, accompanied by his cousin William;
they came to offer their congratulations, with, on Mrs. Sidney's part, a
hope that, now her son was really in the possession of enormous wealth,
some impulse of generosity and benevolence would spring up in his heart.
Accordingly she it was who took the opportunity of offering a petition:
nothing less than that he would spare a certain sum of money for his
cousin William's college expenses.

Poor William! he trembled while he listened, for on the chance of his
cousin's acquiescence rested the probability of his advancement in life,
and the means of assisting his brothers and sisters.

But the face of the young lord grew clouded, and though it would seem
that he dared not look up when he spoke, he said, resolutely, "I have no
money to spare for any such purpose."

"Oh, Charles!" exclaimed Mrs. Sidney, "I know that you have hundreds and
thousands of pounds at your disposal; again, again, I warn you that your
sin is great.  In the sight of God you are but the steward of this vast
property, and to Him will you have to render an account of its disposal.
My son, my son, while there is time, oh! change this heart of stone;" and
overcome by her bitter feelings she burst into tears.

"My hundreds and thousands of pounds," returned Lord Sereton, without
appearing in the least degree moved, "are wanted to pay for an estate
which is contiguous to my present property, and which I am determined on
having.  By joining them together, I shall increase the value of each."

"Is it you, then," exclaimed Mrs. Sidney, with an expression of horror in
her countenance, "is it you then, who have been bidding so cruelly
against the former owner? that good man who, having been compelled from
unforeseen misfortunes to sell his inheritance in early life, has worked
indefatigably for thirty years to win back the house of his fathers, and
preserve the honour of the family.  He was your father's friend too."

"What have I to do with friendship that existed before I was born?" said
the unfeeling youth, sulkily; "I _will_ have the estate, I tell you."

"Hush--hush," murmured the mother, and her words seemed almost prophetic,
"it is God that WILLS, not man; and even now I think HE does not will
this cruelty."

"Aunt, let us go," said William, "I am as grateful to you as if your
mission had been successful."

"Let me call _you_ son:" exclaimed Mrs. Sidney, taking William's hand
with affection; "I will no longer own that selfish and cruel child."

And to this pass had the hardening heart, and the growing covetousness of
Charles Sidney brought him: to be disowned by his mother on his one-and-
twentieth birthday, at the moment of his earthly pride, and of his
acquiring princely possessions!

Yet now, even at this eleventh hour, a merciful God might have pardoned
and protected him.

The feasting and attempted merry-making went off heavily.  There was no
spirit of love, or reverence, or gratitude, to warm the hearts of the
tenantry, or make their lips eloquent; and not a few were glad when the
day was drawing to a close.

Towards evening, the young lord mounted his horse, and rode in the
direction of the much admired neighbouring estate.  Wishing to examine
some particular spots minutely, and to revel in the contemplation of the
whole without being disturbed, he was not even accompanied by a groom.

The sun was going down in all its glory, casting tall shadows of the
trees across the road, when it peeped from the clouds of crimson and gold
that encircled it.  The young lord came to a field dotted with the
graceful wheat-sheaves, for it was harvest time, and knowing that if he
rode across it, he should be saved half a mile of road, he determined to
do so.  Two men were lounging at the gate through which he passed.  One
of them was Thomas Bennett, whom circumstances had induced to become a
labourer on the estate, and he it was who remarked, "He'll be thrown,
that's my opinion; those fine-paced gentlemen's horses are not used to
make their own roads across a corn field."

"Then why don't you warn my lord?" said the other.

"Warn him!" replied Bennett, who it must be owned, had grown up a violent
tempered vindictive man; "you have not lived long in these parts, or you
would have known better than ask that question.  If it were Master
William, now, I should make free to seize the bridle--but as for my lord
there--why, I have known him man and boy, and I'll answer for it, no one
has love enough towards him to warn him from any danger."  And so saying
they both walked rapidly away.

Bennett's words were indeed true, for scarcely had the young lord
proceeded a hundred yards, when the horse, unused to such uneven ground,
stumbled and fell, throwing his unhappy master.  Nor was this all, for
Charles had remained entangled in the stirrup: he was dragged along the
stubble a considerable distance, with a broken arm and fearful bruises,
till, stunned by a kick from the horse, he became insensible.  Probably
the saddle-girth at the same moment gave way and released him, for the
unconscious animal trotted home, and was discovered with disordered
trappings at the park gates.

It was evident some accident had happened, and servants were sent out in
all directions.  The first conscious perception Charles had was of waking
to excruciating agony, and finding himself supported on men's shoulders
along the road.  No doubt every one believed him still insensible, or,
much as he was disliked, they would not have been so cruel as to reproach
him in his hour of agony.  He had not strength to speak, but he could not
avoid hearing.

"He can't get over it; he'll never see another sunset," said one.

"Well, any way we can't have a harder master, that's some comfort!"
exclaimed another.

"Oh!  Master William _is_ a real right down lord," cried a third eagerly,
"he won't rack-rent the tenants, and grind down the poor.  Why, he saved
us and our little ones from the workhouse last winter, though he is
poor--that is quite poor for a gentleman--I well know."

"Then hurrah! for the new lord!" said the second speaker, throwing his
hat in the air; "and I think they should pension the horse, that has
given him to us, with the free run of the park all his life, instead of
shooting him, as some one talked of doing."

"For shame, it is wicked to rejoice over the fallen," said a woman in the
crowd, and in the next moment the sound of a pistol was heard proclaiming
that the horse had paid his penalty for the accident, and would never
throw another rider!

And now for a moment, before these pages close, let us contemplate the
death-bed of the selfish and avaricious young lord, who in the three
stages of ease, affluence, and luxury--and as boy, youth, and man,--had
only laid up his "treasures on earth."

But they could not assuage one torturing pain, or prolong his life for a
second!

Far more than bodily pangs, oh! harder to endure a thousand times, were
the stings of conscience which now assailed him.  In dark array rose all
the scenes of suffering he might have relieved, and had not; he saw
himself again the selfish child, the covetous youth, the grasping
landlord, and the unrelenting man.  The events of that same day were even
yet more fresh in his memory.  Had he but listened to his cousin's wants,
instead of his own selfish plans, might he not have lived?--was it not
one last opportunity of amendment offered by a merciful God, ere He swept
him from the earth, and called him to give a strict account of his
stewardship?

And it was that cousin, who would now have all his wealth, to whom he had
denied in the morning so small a portion.

The anguish of the sufferer's mind was to be read upon his despairing
countenance, and as his weeping mother, now, indeed, with pardon on her
lips, bent over him, he murmured: "Lost, lost, there is no hope for me."

"There is always hope for the truly penitent," replied Mrs. Sidney,
through her tears--"hope in a Saviour--hope in our Maker's mercy."

The dying man turned upon his pillow, for a few minutes he was silent,
though it is believed he joined in the fervent prayers which arose from
the lips of his mother and cousin; and let us hope, though tardy his
repentance, it was accepted.  It was evident he was sinking fast, and
before sunrise he expired.

Almost his last words were, "William, yes, William will atone with the
money for the wrong I have done.  Yet he does not seem so glad as I was
when I became a lord!"

It was all over, and William, the next heir, was indeed the lord of that
wide domain, and of his cousin's accumulated riches; but _his_ first act
was a fervent prayer for divine assistance.  Knowing, as he did, that at
no time is it more needed than, as our Litany beautifully expresses it,
"in all time of our wealth."

That he did make amends for his cousin's avarice by a wise as well as
generous use of his wealth, my young readers will readily believe; and
William, Lord Sereton, was as much beloved as his cousin had been
disliked.  And Mrs. Sidney, grieving as she did, notwithstanding his
faults, for the loss of her only child, found no small consolation in the
affection of that family, whom his death had raised from many cares to
rank and affluence.



THE TRIAL OF ADVERSITY.


   "Blessed are the meek."--ST. MATTHEW v. 5.

   "He that humbleth himself shall be exalted."  ST. LUKE xviii. 14.

"You are quite a contradiction, that you are!" was the exclamation of
Harriet Mannering to her sister.  And she continued, "You are not too
proud to wear a cotton dress and coarse straw bonnet, and even to be seen
in them by the very persons who knew us when we had a carriage; and yet
you will not accept these presents from Mrs. Somerton."

"I do not accept these fine clothes, Harriet," replied her sister Mary,
"because, however kind the gift, Mrs. Somerton only provides me with
them, that I might visit at her house in a suitable manner; and I do not
think it would be my duty to leave poor papa, even for one day, in his
present helpless state.  You are the elder, Harriet, and must act for
yourself, but I have decided."

Mr. Mannering had been a wealthy merchant; but from one of those sudden
reverses of which we so often hear, he had lost his whole fortune.  To
add to his affliction, his eyesight had been for some time failing him,
in consequence, it was thought, of intense application to business; and
about the period of his unfortunate speculation, he became totally blind.

He had been for many years a widower, but his daughters, when these
calamities reached him, were respectively about seventeen and eighteen
years of age.

From a large and commodious house, with many servants, and every luxury,
they were obliged to retire into humble lodgings, living even thus only
upon an allowance made by a distant relative.

The circumstance of Mr. Mannering's blindness threw much of the
responsibility of management and direction upon Harriet and Mary, though
theirs was an early age at which to be so placed.  For though, it is
true, they could ask his advice on every passing circumstance, they very
often refrained from doing so, because, in their changed condition, most
of these very occurrences would, if related to Mr. Mannering, have had
the effect of reminding him, very painfully, of his present poverty.

In the days of their prosperity, it would have been difficult to decide
which of the two girls was the more amiable.

Both of them were affectionate and obedient; both of them were kind to
the poor; and yet, a very keen observer might have discerned, that in
Harriet's visits, or gifts of charity, she was actuated by a
vain-glorious feeling of _pride_ and self-satisfaction at the benefits
she was conferring, which, in the sight of the All-wise Judge, must have
cancelled the merit of her good action; while, on the contrary, Mary's
heart turned in _humble_ thankfulness to God for allowing her to be the
instrument of His mercy, not unaccompanied by a prayer, to assist her
endeavours to perform her duty in that station of life to which it might
please Him to call her.  We shall see, presently, how much more strongly
in adversity each characteristic of mind showed itself.

To Harriet's proud nature the loss of fortune had been a sore affliction.
It had cost her bitter tears to resign her spacious elegant home, the
many servants, and the pleasant carriages; she desired no more to be seen
by those whom she could not now rival in appearance; and yet, when she
and her family mixed with strangers, her offended pride rose in
indignation at the lower station they were obliged to take.

But, though there was sorrow in Mary's heart, there was no rebellion
there.  Her father's blindness was so great an affliction, that it seemed
to swallow up every other; yet even to this she bowed with trusting
piety, remembering, in the words of Job, that "the Lord gave, and the
Lord hath taken away."

Long before the days of their adversity, Mary wrote the following
verses--I do not think they have much poetical merit, but they have
sincerity in them, and there is one line which shows, I think, that Mary,
young as she was, already watched her heart, lest that fatal pride should
invade it; that sin by which, we are told, Satan fell from his high
place, and which, on earth, is sure to lead to selfishness and impiety.

   ON ENTERING CHURCH.

   Again within thy walls I stand,
      Again I bend the knee;
   In mercy, God, so bend my heart,
      And turn my soul to Thee.
   Teach me by thy Almighty power,
      To choose the "better part,"
   And send, above all gifts, thy grace,
      To sanctify my heart.

   ON LEAVING CHURCH.

   For any measure of thy love
      This day vouchsafed to me,
   Accept the tribute of my heart--
      My gratitude to Thee.
   _Yet pride may lurk in humble guise_;
      May I no vain thought own,
   If something whispers one short prayer
      Has reached Thy heavenly throne.

The offer of dresses far more suitable to their former than their present
station, was a temptation Harriet did not resist.  So that while the
elder sister accepted also the invitation to spend a month at Mrs.
Somerton's beautiful house, Mary wrote a grateful letter to that lady,
thanking her for her proffered kindness, but saying that she felt her
duty was to remain at home, and tend her blind father, more especially as
Harriet would be absent.

Although Mary could not avoid touching on their recent misfortunes, her
letter was not a complaining one: on the contrary, it was distinguished
by that Christian humility of spirit which is very nearly akin to
cheerfulness--that humility which, while it bends the heart meekly to the
chastising hand of God, teaches it also to look around, even in
affliction, for means of executing His will.  As the time drew near for
Harriet to depart on the promised visit, it was remarkable that she did
not improve either in amiability of temper, or assiduousness of attention
to her father.

The truth was, she was too much occupied with her own arrangements, to
have much thought for the comfort of others; thus selfishness was the
first-fruit of her pride and vanity.  Mr. Mannering always found the easy
chair and footstool in the same place, and his walking-stick within reach
of his hand: and he perceived, now that summer was come, and flowers
could be had for the gathering, that a vase of sweet-scented blossoms was
always near him; but the blind man did not know that it was Mary's
thoughtfulness alone which now provided for his comfort.  And yet he had
a strange idea; he began to fancy that Harriet's voice was growing shrill
and querulous!  How singular it was, for no one else had observed it; but
it is one of the merciful dispensations of the Almighty, by which we are
guarded, that when man is deprived of one faculty, the others are almost
always sharpened, to make up, in some measure, for the deficiency.  Thus,
though poor Mr. Mannering could not see the frown or distressed
expression which often crossed Harriet's face, he _could_ distinguish the
different modulation of her voice, which was but another expression of
her feelings.

But why was Harriet distressed, ask some of my young readers, now that
she was about enjoying again the fine clothes and all the luxuries which
she had so much regretted?

Listen to a conversation which took place between the sisters, two or
three days before Harriet's departure, and then, perhaps, you will be
able to guess some of the reasons.  Mary had just returned from guiding
her dear papa in a pleasant shady walk, and now, throwing off her bonnet,
and putting on her apron, she prepared to lay the cloth for dinner; for
as they had only one servant, and that was a mere country girl, to do the
drudgery of household work, Mary assisted by performing a thousand little
offices, which Harriet was too haughty to undertake.

"Cannot you come and help me?" said Harriet, who had been sitting at home
all the morning making one of her new dresses.  "I shall never get this
sleeve finished if you do not.  I am sure Peggy, (that was the servant,)
I am sure, for once, Peggy can get the dinner ready without your
assistance."

"No, Harriet, not exactly as papa likes it," replied Mary; "and you know
we are always so sorry when anything happens to remind him of his
misfortunes."

"But how should you know how to mash potatoes, or make pies, or hash meat
so much better than Peggy?" asked Harriet.

"Did I never tell you that, before we left the great house, I asked old
cook to teach me how to do a great many things.  I cannot tell how it
was, but she cried all the while she was telling me about cookery--partly,
I think, at the thought of her dear master having to eat plain or ill-
dressed dinners, partly, I really believe, at her sorrow for leaving us.
However, I coaxed her into teaching me how to make a great many things
dear papa likes; besides, I have bought a cookery-book."

To mark the difference of character, it is worth noticing that Harriet,
before leaving the great house, had "coaxed" the lady's maid to give her
a few hints about the cutting-out of dresses--and since her preparations
for her visit began, she had bought a book of the new fashions.

As it was likely the sisters would henceforth have to make their own
dresses, it was a wise precaution to gain as much information as they
could on the subject; but in their inquiries, the one sister thought only
of her afflicted father's comfort.

"I will help you after dinner," resumed Mary, "that is to say, if papa
does not want me to read to him."  And as, during dinner, Harriet
contrived to make her wishes very evident, Mr. Mannering dispensed with
the reading, and, accepting the arm of a neighbour, a new and homely
acquaintance, took a second stroll in the green lanes.

"What am I to do about a bonnet?" said Harriet, as they sat at work, and
after a pause, as if she had been summoning courage to commence a rather
disagreeable subject.

"About a bonnet?" said Mary, repeating the question.

"Yes, I _must_ have a new one; the old straw is so burnt by the sun, that
it is far too shabby to wear at Mrs. Somerton's; and it looks even worse
by the side of this bright new silk dress, than with a common one."

"I know that," replied Mary, with a sigh, "but you cannot afford a new
one.  If you remember, we both agreed to have new ribbons to the old
bonnets, and thus make them serve."

"Yes, and so you may do, Mary, very well; even if you were to go on
wearing your bonnet as it is, old ribbon and all, I do not see that it
would much signify; but it will be different with me at Mrs. Somerton's,
you know."

"Yet, though no one sees me here," replied the younger sister, musing, as
if to consider if it were possible to save the price of her own ribbon,
as something towards procuring the new bonnet which Harriet said she
"must" have, "though nobody sees me, it is right at least to be _neat_
and _clean_, and really my bonnet strings are very dirty."

"Could you not wash them?" said Harriet, really blushing at the meanness
and selfishness of her own suggestion.

"I did not think of that before.  Yes, I can wash the ribbon, and I shall
not much care about it looking faded and shabby, if it be clean.  So, at
all events, there will be that money towards purchasing what new things
you still require."

"I am sure it is very good of you, Mary," replied her sister, the anxious
expression of her countenance somewhat relaxing; but, alas! this was only
the removal of one of many similar troubles.  The bright dress and the
new bonnet required many other articles to correspond, for the purchasing
of each of which some new sacrifice was exacted from the gentle Mary.  And
Harriet suffered all this for the selfish gratification of a mere vanity,
which, disdaining their humble abode, and so repining at God's will,
which had changed her position from wealth to poverty, sought, at any
hazard, to flutter in fine clothes, and to maintain a false appearance!
Instead of perceiving the beautiful and unselfish character which Mary
was developing, in the careful and cheerful discharge of her humble
duties, Harriet had latterly begun to feel contempt for her,--a feeling
which grew so strongly, that, before she departed on her visit, she had
quite arrived at the conclusion that Mary was a very inferior person to
herself, and fit for no more exalted station than that which seemed to
await her.

On the whole, this opinion was a source of satisfaction to Harriet
Mannering, since it relieved her own mind from any anxiety about leaving
her father--she felt so very sure Mary would attend on him carefully.
Thus, the very virtues of the one sister were made the excuse for the
selfish vanity and haughtiness of the other; until, priding herself on
some beauty, and a few showy accomplishments, I believe the elder sister
at last thought she was conferring almost a favour by becoming Mrs.
Somerton's guest.

Mrs. Somerton was a kind-hearted lady; and her real motive for inviting
one of Mr. Mannering's daughters to pass some time with her, was to
ascertain if her disposition and acquirements were such as to fit her for
a situation in the family, as an assistant, or under-governess to her
children.  I think her plan was a very good one, for it afforded her more
opportunity of judging of Miss Mannering's real character, than if she
had been quite conscious of Mrs. Somerton's intention; and, considering
the important trust that lady was confiding to Harriet, I think she was
justified in taking any measures short of deception, to ascertain the
real qualities of her heart and mind.

Certainly no deception was practised.  Harriet was invited as a guest,
and treated with all the consideration of one, but Mrs. Somerton,
narrowly watched her conduct and her words.

It would be well if both young and old always remembered, that this life
is at best but a state of probation, and that in all our actions we are
but "on trial," watched over by the All-seeing God.  And often, and
often, indeed, when we least suspect it, our doings are marked by our
fellow men, are weighed, even in an earthly balance, and so are permitted
to influence our earthly happiness.  A poet has said--

   "A deed can never die."

If my young readers do not yet understand how the consequences of our
actions follow us through life, and so do not perceive all the truth and
meaning of that line, I would advise them, nevertheless, to remember it;
some day they will understand it better.

We shall leave Harriet Mannering for awhile on her visit of pleasure and
gaiety, and return to the humble dwelling of her father and sister.  What
with her household cares, and walking with and reading to her father, the
time flew rapidly with Mary: she met, too, with an unexpected return for
her attention and devotion.

At first, the books of history, divinity, and natural philosophy, which
were those her father had desired her to read, had seemed heavy and
abstruse, but gradually their meaning, like a dawning light, beamed upon
her mind, which, opening to receive it, let in the new delight of
intellectual pleasure!  Then, in the long twilight of the summer evening,
when it was too dark to read, would she sit on a stool at her father's
feet, with one of his hands clasped in both of hers, and he would explain
away the difficulties at which her young mind had halted.

What did it signify that they sat in an humble, low-roofed chamber, and
that Mary's dress was one of cotton?  They could discourse on the wonders
of creation, and the goodness of God!

But, if the pleasures of an enlarging mind were opening on Mary, new
cares were also stealing upon her.  The many purchases Harriet had made,
had drawn heavily on their little stock of money, in addition to which,
Mr. Mannering had suffered so much pain in his eyes, that he had been
obliged to have further medical advice.  Mary felt that some means must
be found of adding to their little income.  At first, she thought of
attending pupils, and imparting what she had learned in the days of
prosperity.  But, distrustful of herself, she sometimes doubted if she
were competent to undertake the task of tuition.

She might have taught music, but, for want of an instrument, she was
sadly out of practice, and feared that this, with her youth, and her want
of experience, would be a hindrance to her success; and so she found it.
Yet something must be done; for Mary's humility of heart was not that
inert apathy of idleness, that is sometimes by foolish, unthinking people
mistaken for it; and I suppose, in the eyes of the vain and worldly,
there was some degradation in Mary Mannering employing several hours of
the day in needlework, for which, at the end of the week, she received a
few shillings; but the gentle girl herself never fell that there could be
disgrace in earning this trifle honestly, however humbly; although, in
one of Harriet's letters, she professed to be quite "shocked" at the
necessity of such a thing, while she made it a plea for her own prolonged
absence, saying that there was one less to support while she was away.  It
would seem that it never occurred to her to contribute her share of
industry by the labour either of head or hand.

Alas! her heart was indeed becoming hardened by her selfish pride.

Mary and her father had one evening been enjoying their usual walk, when
one of those sudden storms, which often succeed sultry weather, came on.
They were not within a mile of any house where they could ask for
shelter; but they chanced to be near a wide arch which had been
constructed across the road for the convenience of a railway line.  Above
them, rolled the hissing engine and its long train, and glad enough were
they of the protection the archway afforded.  They had not, however, been
there many minutes before they perceived an open carriage coming rapidly
along the road, and as, just when it reached the point where Mr.
Mannering and his daughter had found shelter, the storm increased to its
utmost violence, the elder of the two gentlemen, whom the carriage
contained, desired the coachman to draw up under the archway until the
pouring rain should have somewhat abated.  The gentlemen were Dr. Vernon,
a celebrated physician, and his son.

I should have told you before that Mary was not considered so handsome as
her sister, and, as you know, she had not the advantage of gay and
fashionable attire; but both the gentlemen have often said since that
there was something inexpressively interesting in her appearance.  I
suspect hers must have been the loveliness of a kind, affectionate, and
contented heart, which showed itself in her watchful attention to her
blind father, and in her always unaffected manner.

Dr. Vernon was the first to address Mr. Mannering, when he not only
perceived his affliction, but also discovered he was conversing with no
ordinary individual; for it is astonishing, when two persons of great
acquirements and high moral worth are thrown together, how speedily they
understand each other.  The storm continuing, prolonged the interview,
until, in the course of conversation, it appeared that Dr. Vernon and Mr.
Mannering had known each other in their youth, though circumstances had
separated them in later years.  This, of course, was an additional source
of interest, and, after a little while, Dr. Vernon insisted on Mary and
her father getting into his carriage, and promised to set them down at
their own door.

The acquaintance thus renewed, was not likely again to drop, and from
paying them frequent visits, it very soon happened that either Dr. Vernon
or his son was sure to call to see the invalid every day.  Arthur Vernon
was at this time about five and twenty, and was no less remarkable for
his great talents than for his amiable disposition.  He had inherited an
independent fortune from a distant relative, but, from love of science,
and a consciousness of the wide field of active benevolence that they
might open to him, he had studied medicine and surgery with great
perseverance.  Latterly he had devoted himself more particularly to the
consideration of the eye, and the truth was, he began to think that Mr.
Mannering's sight was not irrevocably gone, and that he had a knowledge
of remedies which, by the blessing of God, would restore the sight of his
father's old friend.

It was to Mary herself that Mr. Vernon first breathed his hopes of
effecting a cure, and is there much wonder that henceforth she looked
forward to his visits with interest and delight?  And, as day by day hope
seemed to promise recovered sight more and more surely, it was very
natural that she should feel deep gratitude to the young surgeon.

Sometimes when Mr. Vernon came, Mary was at needlework, sometimes
attending to the necessary domestic arrangements, and sometimes reading
to her father; and, if the last was the case, the conversation not
unfrequently turned upon the book before them.

Mary had acquired one valuable piece of information.  She knew enough to
understand how very trifling was the sum of all her knowledge; it may be
remarked that very ignorant persons are almost always the most conceited.
Such individuals have no more idea of knowledge than those born blind or
deaf can have of sight or sound.  But the gentle humble-minded Mary
Mannering was a very opposite character.  She was _not_ ignorant; she
had, as it were, peeped, through books and conversations with her father,
at the vast stores of knowledge and learning which human reason has been
permitted to accumulate; and, though she knew how little, in the longest
life, could really be mastered, in comparison with the mighty whole, she
also knew that one of the purest pleasures that life affords proceeds
from acquiring the sort of information which opens to our view the
wonders of creation.  Thus would she quietly listen to conversations on
many improving subjects between her father and Mr. Vernon, seldom joining
in them, it is true, unless she was addressed.  But hers was that
"eloquent silence" which is the opposite of indifference.

And thus several months passed away; for the remedies Mr. Vernon
recommended to his patient were slow in their operation.  Winter came,
and still he was a daily visitor.  Oh! how sadly Mary would have missed
him!

An event, however, was about to occur of some importance; nothing less
than Harriet's return home from her protracted visit at Mrs. Somerton's.

Yes, Harriet returned to her lowly home, less inclined than ever to be
content in her own station.  She returned to it, however, because Mrs.
Somerton had not found her distinguished by the gentleness and humility
she had hoped to recognise in her character.  For the proud and vain are
always selfish, and perhaps Harriet Mannering had been quite unconscious
that, while eagerly bent on her own enjoyment and frivolous
gratification, her conduct had been narrowly watched.  And what had she
to show as the harvest or even gleanings of the last few months?
Literally nothing, for her time had been utterly wasted--her fine clothes
were worn out, and neither mind nor prospects improved.

It appeared that Mr. Vernon had sometimes visited at Mrs. Somerton's,
but, though Harriet recollected him immediately, she had made so little
impression on his mind that he did not at first remember her.  And now it
was no small mortification to the vain girl to discover that Mary, in her
humble home and common dress, was treated both by Dr. Vernon and his son
with a consideration _she_ had never found among any of the gay guests at
Somerton Park.  For the truth was they already loved and esteemed Mary.

This was, perhaps, the first happy awakening of Harriet to the faults of
her own character; she began to perceive the sweetness of gentle,
unselfish humility, which, prompting ever to a contented fulfilment of
our duties, is sure to make its presence felt, even as we know, by its
delicious perfume, that the violet is near, though hidden from sight
beneath its green canopy of leaves.

Time passed on.  At last, one happy day of returning spring, light
gleamed again on the darkened orbs of the afflicted father!  The cure was
working, and soon--very soon, he could recognise his dear children; and,
throwing back their hair to gaze yet more fondly on their countenances,
he would talk of the change of time, of their growth, and, above all, of
his deep thankfulness to the Almighty for the blessing of sight.  And now
it was that Harriet fancied--was it fancy?--that he looked more fondly at
Mary than herself.  And then _they_ had so many subjects of interest to
talk about, of which she knew nothing.  But whose fault was it that she
had not shared her gentle sister's cares and pleasures?

The happy time had come when Mr. Mannering no longer required the guiding
hand of either daughter.  He was walking in the little garden which
belonged to their dwelling when Dr. Vernon and his son arrived.  Contrary
to his custom, the old gentleman, perceiving his friend, joined him out
of doors, while Arthur, who well knew his way up stairs, tapped at the
door of their one sitting room.  He did not perceive any occupant but
Mary as he entered, and indeed, I am not quite certain that even she was
aware that Harriet was in the room, Mary herself having only just come
in, and her sister being nearly hidden by a thick curtain which half
covered the window.

It was then and there, with the haughty sister for a listener, that
Arthur Vernon asked the gentle Mary to be his wife!--hinting at his hopes
and wishes at first in answer to some expressions of gratitude from her
for the service he had rendered her father, and begging her thus to repay
it by giving him herself.

Mary wept, but they were very happy tears she shed; for now she might own
that gratitude and admiration, for his noble qualities had made Arthur
Vernon very dear to her.  Yet she could not refrain from asking if his
father were willing he should marry one poor and humble as herself.

"Think not, dear Mary," he replied, "that I would tempt you to
disobedience by setting you the example.  I am almost sure my father has
spoken to Mr. Mannering this morning on the same subject, and here our
parents come to complete our happiness by giving their sanction."

And so it was.  Dr. Vernon kissed her affectionately as he said, "My son
has chosen wisely and well.  A dutiful daughter will make a good wife;
and though now he is rich, he knows how mutable is all earthly fortune.
And so he has chosen a wife whose wealth cannot be taken from her, for it
consists in good principles and a well-stored mind; and an humble,
loving, and gentle nature, that will add to all the joys of prosperity as
it would comfort him in the sorrows of adversity, prompting her, in
either case, to 'do her duty in that state of life unto which it shall
please God to call her.'"

And after awhile Harriet came forward with streaming eyes, but her tears
did not now spring from envy or selfish regrets.  "Father!" she
exclaimed, "in this happy hour, forgive me my haughty selfish conduct.
Mary! teach, oh, teach me some of your virtues!"

"I forgive all, Harriet," replied Mr. Mannering, with much emotion, "for
the acknowledgment of your error is half-way to repentance and atonement.
And this is a day of triple happiness, for I have just heard that, now my
sight is restored, I have a fair chance of again entering into mercantile
pursuits, and arriving at independence.  But oh! my children, neither in
prosperity nor adversity let us forget to pray for true humility of
heart--the Christian spirit!"




VICTORINE DUROCHER;
OR,
THE BLESSINGS OF PEACE.


BY
MRS. SHERWOOD,
AND
HER DAUGHTER, MRS. STREETEN.



VICTORINE DUROCHER.


It was towards the end of the pleasant month of May, that Dorsain D'Elsac
reached Salency, in Picardy, and stopped at the door of his sister's
cottage, a Madame Durocher, who dwelt in that village.  Dorsain D'Elsac
was one of three children.  The elder, Pauline, however, was no more; she
had married, but was never a mother, so that the children of Margoton
Durocher, his remaining sister, were the nearest relatives he had left in
the world.  It is true D'Elsac had a wife, one, I must say, of the best
tempered women in all Dauphiny,--she was a native of Grenoble, in that
province,--but she was now getting on in years, and was often very weary
of her daily employment, and yet she had no one to whom she could
occasionally entrust her duties.

It was one evening, when complaining of this to her husband, that Madame
D'Elsac suddenly exclaimed, "What say you, Dorsain, of sending to Salency
for one of your sister Margoton Durocher's grown up daughters; as Pauline
has left no family, we may ask Margoton to let us have one of her three
good-sized girls?  Had we not better have one of your own nieces,
Dorsain, than a stranger?"

Though Madame D'Elsac, having once thought of this plan, was ready and
willing to put it into execution without a thought, not so her worthy
husband.  He must first weigh the affair steadily in his mind, and repeat
over and over again to his wife, that if once they took a relative into
their house, they could not part with her as a hired attendant if she did
not suit them; "and then you know, Delphine," he added, "you and I are so
happy and comfortable together, that I should not like to invite one to
our home who might make that home disagreeable."

Madame D'Elsac's disposition was of that easy kind that she allowed her
worthy partner almost to talk himself against the arrangement altogether,
and the matter would probably have dropped without any consequences, had
not Dorsain mentioned it to a neighbour, who had been at Salency two
years before, and who had been highly delighted with the lovely daughters
of Madame Durocher.  So the affair was settled, that D'Elsac should
invite a niece to wait upon his wife, and to reside with them on their
pretty little farm, near Grenoble, on the borders of Swisserland.  The
next point in question was, whether this selected niece should be
Caliste, Victorine, or Lisette, for as to little Mimi, the fourth
daughter of Madame Durocher, she was considered altogether too young for
the office.

Monsieur D'Elsac had not seen his sister nor her children for many years,
and it is probable, that this slow-minded gentleman would have pondered
till his death, upon which he should favour of his nieces, if the quicker
Delphine had not proposed that he should go over to Salency and see the
young girls before he made his selection.  So the affair now really
appeared likely to come to some settlement after all, particularly as
Monsieur D'Elsac did arrive safely in Salency, mounted on one of his own
farm horses, from which he alighted at the door of Monique.

The cottage of his sister was small, containing only three apartments and
an outer kitchen, and the furniture was of the simplest kind.  As the
family were numerous, the kitchen was used as a sleeping apartment, the
head of the bed being made in a kind of cupboard, into which in the
daytime the bedding was turned up, and the cupboard doors closed.  A few
chairs, a table, and a glass case, in which was a coarse waxen figure,
flauntingly dressed, representing the Virgin with her child in her arms,
completed the rest of the moveables of the sitting room.

D'Elsac fastened his horse to a post, which opportunely stood near, and
walked into the cottage.  No sound reached his ear, though around him lay
many articles, denoting that the family had not long been absent.  He was
in the kitchen, but his step aroused no one to see who was the intruder,
and he again walked back to the door, but still there was no appearance
of any one near.

He looked down the village street, to see if any one was approaching, but
the village also appeared deserted, and he was beginning to get a little
uneasy, when he was roused by the playful voice of a child as it were
behind him.  He turned in the direction of the voice, and saw that two
young girls were standing in the very middle of the apartment, having
come from some inner room.

They did not appear to notice D'Elsac, as he was without the cottage
door, and, as he listened unnoticed by them, he was aware that they were
too much interested with their own conversation to regard his presence.

He could not doubt for an instant but that these two fair girls before
him were his nieces, and the younger, a mere playful child, was no doubt
the little Mime or Mimi, as she was endearingly called, for the rare
talent she evinced in mimicking or laughing at the eccentricities of her
neighbours.

Mimi was a very lovely little girl in outward appearance, her hair and
eyes being of a most brilliant black, and she wore the dress of the
peasants of Normandy, a province which borders close on Picardy.  D'Elsac
could not so easily distinguish her companion, though she was evidently
an elder sister, and she, too, wore the Norman costume.  This dress
consisted of a full red striped petticoat, a jacket with short sleeves,
and an apron with pockets.

He saw, however, that she was not behind her younger sister in beauty,
and though speaking with earnestness to the child, when Dorsain first
beheld her, her manner was gentle, and her countenance calm and serene.

"My dearest Mimi," she said, "I want you to understand thoroughly, why I
refused to listen to Monsieur le Prieur, when he came to talk to me.  He
wanted me to try with my own sisters Caliste and Lisette for the rose,
and supposing I had agreed to do so, what would have been the
consequences, my dear Mimi?  I love them dearly now, and I believe they
love me; but were I to gain the rose from them, they would be vexed, and
if I lost it after trying for it, I should be disappointed, and very
likely I should be cross and jealous."

"You are never cross, Victorine," replied the child, "so that you
certainly have a better right than Caliste or Lisette to the rose, and
then, too, we shall have fine work here, if they are rivals for the rose,
and either of them has a chance of getting it."

"Alas!  I fear," exclaimed Victorine, sorrowfully, "alas!  I fear so,
Mimi, I could almost find it in my heart to hope that neither will be
chosen."

"But you forget," replied Mimi, "how we manage these things in Salency,
you have only been at one of our yearly fetes, whilst I have been to ten,
and five of those I can remember very well.  Three girls are always
chosen, Victorine, by the villagers, not one only, and then the Seigneur
takes one from those three--that is the way, you know, and Monsieur Le
Prieur wanted you, and Caliste, and Lisette, to be the three chosen.  He
said it would make the thing so interesting, if three out of one family
were striving for the rose."

"Can it be possible," said Victorine, all astonishment, "that anybody can
be so ignorant of human nature, as to set three sisters to strive against
each other, to rouse up envy and jealousy in their minds, to make them
grieve to hear that their own sister is looked upon favourably by their
neighbours and friends, because by that favourable notice they will he
rejected?  Young as you are, Mimi, you can see that this fete of the rose
must be very wrong, by raising one girl above another, and causing envy,
hatred, and malice amongst the rivals for the rose."

"It is very wrong," exclaimed the child, after a moment's thought.  "Yes,
Victorine, it is very wrong, I am sure, and a fine scene we shall have of
it here, which ever way it turns up.  But I am for Caliste against
Lisette--I am for Caliste, and if Lisette gains it, I for one will not
let her set herself over us.  I am for Caliste--I am for Caliste."

So shouting, the child darted from the cottage, paying no heed to
Victorine's entreaties to allow the matter to take its course, for enough
strife was likely to ensue, and nearly knocking down D'Elsac in her
eagerness, she ran down the village street, and the next minute was out
of sight.  For a moment, or more, her uncle remained still at the door
reflecting upon what had passed between the sisters; then, anxious to
know what the worthy Salenciens were about, he stepped into the cottage
to learn particulars from his niece.

Victorine was seated beside a table, on which lay her needlework, yet
untouched; she had covered her face with her hands, and it was evident by
her manner she was feeling deeply.  The step of D'Elsac roused her, and,
looking up, the tear was visible in her eye, she brushed it away hastily,
as she rose to receive her visitor, and offering him a chair, she begged
him to rest till her parents returned.

"You cannot know me, Victorine," he said, embracing her, "but I am your
uncle, D'Elsac, and I am come to Salency to see my sister and her family.
It is many years, my child, since we met, but tell me where are my sister
and her husband?  Where are Caliste and Lisette? or whither has little
Mimi run in such haste?"

"Is it possible," enquired Victorine, "that you do not know the fete of
St. Medard is approaching, uncle Dorsain?  It is well you asked _me_ the
cause why our village is deserted to all appearance to-day, had you asked
any other Salencien, I really do not know what they would have thought of
you."

Victorine spoke playfully, and D'Elsac feared not to acknowledge his
ignorance.  "Remember," he said, "that I have only once before been at
Salency, and that was but for a day.  Tell me then, dear niece, what it
is I ought to know before my sister returns."

Victorine smiled, as she answered, "Well, uncle, I will repeat to you, as
nearly as I can, the words of Monsieur Le Prieur when speaking on this
subject:--'Twelve centuries ago, the proprietor of Salency was named
Medard, whose good conduct was so renowned, that on his death he was
beatified.  St. Medard was a native of Salency, and being a great admirer
of all that was good in others as well as in himself, he appointed a day
of festival, the 8th of June, being his own birthday, on which that young
girl, who was most remarkable for good conduct, modesty, and wisdom in
Salency, should receive from the judge of the district a rose or crown of
roses publicly presented to her in the chapel of St. Medard, and for the
following twelvemonth she was to be honoured by the title of the Rosiere
of Salency.'  In little more than a week is our fete of the rose, and to-
day is the day in which the Salenciens meet before the officers of
justice to converse on the subject, and to choose three young girls from
whom the Seigneur de Salency must select the Rosiere.  All the parents
and friends, and even the young girls themselves, are gone to hear this
discussion; and, unless it may be the sick or infirm, all our cottages
are deserted for the chamber of meeting."

"And you, Victorine," enquired Dorsain, "wherefore are you not there?"

She blushed, as she answered timidly, "Dear uncle, I am a heretic, or
what we term a protestant.  I think such scenes encourage anything but
peace or family love."

"A heretic, a Protestant!" repeated D'Elsac.  "How is that, Victorine?"

She blushed still more deeply, saying, in very low tones, "My aunt
Pauline, you know, married a native of Geneva, and went with him to dwell
in Geneva.  My uncle Basil was a protestant, and my aunt became one also.
They had no family, uncle Dorsain, and my mother being very ill after my
birth, my aunt Pauline, who happened to be here, took me to her home, and
till I was fifteen, I never even saw my parents.  My aunt is dead now,"
she added, the tears filling her eyes, "and my dear uncle Basil too, so I
have come back to live with my parents, and I am allowed to continue in
the faith in which I was reared, at least, till I am one and twenty, and
then Monsieur Le Prieur threatens to banish me from Salency, and my
family, unless I renounce the Protestant faith.  I am now seventeen," she
added, "Caliste is two years older, Lisette is nearly a year younger, and
little Mimi is not eleven.  I am allowed free intercourse with my family;
and though my bible is taken from me, yet I ought, and am very thankful,
for the indulgence shown to me."

"But why do you disapprove this fete, Victorine?" asked D'Elsac.  "Does
it not encourage virtue?"

"Dearest uncle," she replied, "what is virtue?  Are not we full of sin
and corrupt before God, and will not such a strife as this encourage
envy, hatred, and malice amongst us?  Are we not driving peace from our
breasts and our firesides, uncle Dorsain, and can we expect to be holier
or better when she is banished from us?  With peace goes love, and is not
'love thy neighbour as thyself,' the blessed Commandment given us by our
Lord?"

D'Elsac, however, did not agree on this point, and he told her so, while,
secretly, he congratulated himself on not having been too hasty in his
choice.  "I might have taken this heretic home," he thought, "and so near
Geneva as we are, she would have all the encouragement one heretic ever
gives another.  Let me be cautious, therefore, I will watch Caliste and
Lisette carefully, before I select one as a daughter."

Just when the good man had arrived at this conclusion, a sound of many
voices reached them, and the next minute Margoton Durocher, with her
daughters and neighbours, stopped at her door.  There was an increase of
noise and bustle on the appearance of D'Elsac, and for some minutes
everybody spoke and nobody listened.

Dorsain was much struck with the change years had effected in his sister.
She was as lovely as any of her own daughters when they last met: now she
was become very stout, and her features were very coarse; but still her
dark eyes sparkled with pleasure, and her cheeks were glowing with
unusual bloom.

She saluted her brother on each side the face, inquired kindly after his
wife, and then without waiting for further particulars of the reason of
his visit, she called aloud for Caliste and Lisette to present them to
their uncle.

If Dorsain had been pleased with the quiet Victorine, he was enchanted
with the growing and still budding beauty of Lisette, who was certainly,
in outward appearance, the loveliest of the family; then Caliste, too,
with her long dark eyelashes, and her look of proud pensiveness, was very
charming.  In short, the worthy man looked first on one fair girl and
then on another in high delight, and concluded by heartily embracing the
little Mimi playfully, scolding her for pushing by him so hastily, and
then, in the same breath, declaring that never before had any uncle four
such very charming nieces.

It was curious to see how differently the sisters took this
compliment--the proud Caliste's lip slightly curled in scorn at it, as a
mere kind commonplace; Lisette blushed, and took the praise as all her
own; Victorine smiled good-humouredly, and little Mimi archly took up her
uncle's words, and inquired "if he had come to Salency, to see which of
her sisters would look best as the Rosiere."

Dorsain, to his astonishment, was suddenly and loudly congratulated on
his probably near connection to the future Rosiere, and all with one
voice declared, "he would never be forgiven if he did not stay to the
fete of St. Medard."

Now Dorsain had already determined he would stay with his sister for some
days, but being, as I have before remarked, a thoughtful and slow
personage, he was so long in answering, that he found the good and
excited Salenciens had imagined his silence was a refusal, and all
together they mutually joined to persuade him to stay.

"Now, brother," said Margoton, "this is one of the proudest days of my
life, and I shall take it very hard to be thwarted in anything on this
day.  Caliste, Lisette, my fair rival Rosieres, speak, urge your uncle to
stay to see our family triumphant."

"Monsieur D'Elsac, you must remain for the fete," exclaimed one of the
neighbours, "we could not let you leave us on any account; well may
Margoton call this the proudest day of her life, for no native of Salency
has been so fortunate, so favoured, as she is now, from the day the
sister of St. Medard was proclaimed Rosiere even to the present year."

Lisette then addressed Dorsain, taking his hand, and looking up into his
face, "Uncle," she said, "we wish you to remain, surely you will not vex
us by a refusal to-day?"

The speaking eyes of Caliste and Victorine seemed to request his
presence, and the little Mimi, hanging upon him playfully, held her
finger on his lips, that he should not thwart their wishes.  What could
Dorsain do?  He did not intend to go, but it happily struck him, that he
might answer them, as if their over persuasion had prevailed against his
past arrangements, and that, without their suspecting his intention, he
would have plenty of time given him to study the characters of the three
sisters.  Moving the hand of Mimi, he inquired, "what had been the result
of the meeting that morning."

"Is it possible, it cannot have reached you?" exclaimed the mother,
proudly.  "Why, Dorsain, never such a thing has been known at Salency in
the memory of man.  My own two girls, Caliste and Lisette, have been
chosen, with Felicie Durand, and the Seigneur will make his election as
it pleases him.  Two out of one family, Dorsain, only think, two sisters
from one family; ought I not to be proud of my girls?  But, alas!" and
she sighed, casting a look of displeasure on Victorine, "alas! we have
all our troubles.  Why should the elder and younger daughter be chosen,
and the second past over as a shame, rather than an honour, to an honest
family?"

Poor Victorine coloured highly, and turned her head away from the group.

Mimi sprang forwards, and seized her hand, exclaiming, "If the best girl
in the village was to be Rosiere, where should we find another equal to
you, Victorine?  Now own it, mother," continued the indulged child, "own
that Victorine is the most obedient and complaisant of us four."

Madame Durocher patted Mimi on the head, and held out her other hand to
Victorine, as she kindly said, "Well, my dear girl, I cannot help being
somewhat vexed; you are a good girl, Victorine, a very good girl; and it
is quite excusable in a mother to regret that her child does not share in
the triumphs of virtue.  I have no fault to find with you, Victorine,
none whatever, and as Mimi says you would have as good a chance as any to
be Rosiere; what a sad pity it is then, that you have such foolish
opinions on some few points!"

"Dearest mother," replied Victorine, respectfully kissing her hand, "I am
content, if you are satisfied, not to try for the rose."

"Well, well," exclaimed Margoton, "I am proud of my girls, and I think
Felicie Durand has but little chance against them."

"You are right there, neighbour Durocher," replied the same person who
had spoken before.  "You have, indeed, reason to be proud.  How lovely
will your charming Lisette, or Caliste either, look at the feet of
Monsieur le Prieur, in the chapel, with the crown of roses on her brow!"

Again Lisette blushed as she smiled her thanks, whilst the beautiful eyed
Caliste, displeased at the evident preference given by their neighbour to
her sister's beauty, turned abruptly towards her mother, and inquired,
"if they had not better arrange something for the comfort of Monsieur
D'Elsac.  My uncle's horse is still at the door," she said, "and he has
himself not been asked to take food in our cottage.  Victorine has,
indeed, mentioned it to you, mother; but her words, no doubt, fell
unheeded."  The manner, perhaps, more than the words of Caliste, was an
intimation to the neighbours to depart, and as they left the cottage, the
woman to whom she more particularly addressed her looks, vented her
displeasure in words.

"How intolerably proud that girl is!" she said; "and, after all, her
sister Lisette is by far handsomer.  I think Victorine, too, is very
pretty; and as to Mimi, there is no doubt she will soon be her superior
in beauty."

"I like Caliste much better than Lisette," replied the person to whom she
addressed herself, "for though she is so proud, yet the other is very
selfish.  Caliste may speak rudely, but she will do you a kindness; as to
Lisette, she is wrapped up in selfishness and conceit."

Such were the comments made upon two of the chosen maidens of Salency;
and whoever will remember that the heart is full of evil, will no longer
wonder at the faults of these young girls.  Both Caliste and Lisette kept
up an outward semblance of virtue, the one from pride, the other from the
desire of being flattered and admired; but as the motives which guided
their actions were not all powerful, the moment they were really tried
they failed in influencing their conduct.

When left alone, Margoton and Dorsain had much to say on family matters,
and the mother expatiated largely upon the late election.  "Brother," she
said, "Caliste and Lisette have by this shown you how well the villagers
regard them.  Mimi, too, is an universal favourite; but my poor
Victorine,--is a heretic, brother, a decided heretic.  Never shall I
forget the day that our sister Pauline took the babe to her home; but I
thought I was dying then, and my husband thought so too, and what could
Valmont do with a young babe?  Pauline was not a heretic then--she became
one about a year afterwards; but somehow or other we forgot to send for
Victorine, or we never had a good opportunity of fetching home the child.
Thus things went on, and never shall I forget our astonishment on our
first seeing our daughter, when the deaths of Pauline and her husband
caused her suddenly to be restored to us.

"Victorine was then fifteen, and mistress of twenty louis in gold; but on
account of her heresy, Monsieur le Prieur took it from her for the
benefit of the church, and to expend in masses for Pauline and Basil's
souls, but he allows us to keep Victorine with us, at least till she is
one and twenty, for he hopes a constant communion with Catholics will, in
the end, work her conversion.  When she is one and twenty, she must
either renounce her heresy publicly in the chapel of St. Medard, or else
be banished from Salency."

Margoton then went on to speak of her other daughters, and, encouraged to
talk by Dorsain, she acknowledged that the proud spirit of Caliste made
her often tremble before it, whilst the excessive self-conceit of Lisette
prevented any reproof being of use to her.  Mimi she mentioned with less
pain; her faults being still those of a child, had not yet brought with
them a sting to her mother's heart.

When Valmont returned from his own vineyard, whither he had gone that
morning, he inquired of his wife, "who had been elected amongst the
villagers to stand for Rosiere."  Margoton told him with pride of their
two children being selected, with Felicie Durand, a girl well worthy, she
owned, to be chosen with her own daughters.

Durocher, with more coarseness than his wife, upbraided Victorine for not
striving for the rose with her sisters.  "Were you but cured of your
folly, child," he said, "there is no doubt of your success as Rosiere,
for you are a great favourite, Victorine, notwithstanding your heresy."

Victorine could have asked, had she thought it right, if it might not be
this very heresy which made her beloved.  She had been taught by her aunt
Pauline to seek after peace, and to pursue it, for such is well-pleasing
in the eyes of our God.  And that person who strives not with his
neighbour, who is content with his own situation, and willing to give way
in what is right to others, will most probably, if he act consistently,
be beloved by his friends and neighbours.  To her father's remark she
made no reply, but there was that in her heart which made her at rest.
She did not desire the crown of roses; she did not wish to be exalted
above her young friends.  She knew wherein true happiness consists, and
she was fully aware that such distinction could not confer true
happiness.

What especially impressed this upon her mind was the perceiving a cloud
upon the brow of Caliste, and a flush on her cheek, which betokened
resentment or anger.  When alone with this sister, she could not get her
to acknowledge what vexed her; but Lisette was not so backward with her
information.

"It is not my fault, you know, Victorine," she said, with an affected
air, "if I am considered superior to my elder sister.  It is ridiculous
in Caliste to be angry about that.  She ought to conquer her great pride,
and then she will be more agreeable and more beloved.  She fears me for a
rival, Victorine.  She is not jealous of Felicie Durand--indeed, I know
she would prefer her being elected before me; but I cannot help being a
younger sister, neither can I ungratefully quarrel about a preference our
neighbours may choose to give me over Caliste."

"Then you think," said Victorine, "you will be the chosen Rosiere."

"I have very little doubt of it," she answered, "for Caliste has shown
her pride to our neighbour, Madame Goton, and she is the marchande de
mode of Madame la Baronne de Salency."

"But I thought," said Victorine, "that the rose was to be given without
prejudice or partiality."

"So it is," replied Lisette, angrily, "and it is by failure of courtesy
and civility that Caliste will lose it."

Victorine sighed, for she saw clearly that a breach was made between her
two sisters that nothing but time could heal.  The elder, in her pride,
shunned compassion, whilst the triumphant self-conceit of the younger was
a perpetual gall to her sister.

Thus was peace banished from the household of Durocher, and Valmont and
his wife were in a perpetual excitement, lest Felicie Durand should be
elected, and their own children passed over.  Mimi was wholly for her
sister Caliste, in opposition to Lisette, whilst Caliste felt her cause a
failing one, and had the mortifying assurance she should have to yield
the triumph to a younger sister.

Victorine felt for all, and did not know what to desire, for whichever
way it turned out, it would bring sorrow to the family in one or other of
its members--and thus passed the first four days of Dorsain's visit at
Salency.

It was on the Sunday morning, being the first of June, that the election
was to be made, after Prone, in church.  Prone is an exhortation or
lecture, read by the priest at mass, in which he announces the holy days
of the ensuing week.

Caliste, Lisette, and Felicie Durand, attired in white, walked together
to church, and sate side by side during the service, all eyes being fixed
upon them.  Dorsain, with his sister and her husband, and Mimi, were also
there, but Victorine, who could not join in the service, remained at home
to pray for her sisters.  Whilst thus left to solitude, she had time
given her not only gratefully to thank God for not being one in the
strife, but also to implore that the lesson might be beneficial to her
family.

From Mimi she learnt that Caliste had reason to believe that Lisette
would be preferred to herself, the beauty of her younger sister having
attracted the attention and admiration of Madame la Baronne, whose
husband was to proclaim the Rosiere.

Earnestly did she pray that the disappointment might be blest to Caliste,
and, after shedding some tears for this sister's sake, she prepared to
receive her in the manner that would be most agreeable to a proud and
disappointed mind.  Being led to see that this trial might be, in the
end, a blessing to Caliste, Victorine became composed, and even happy,
for that peace of God, which passeth all understanding, was shed upon her
mind, and she knew that in life or death He was with her, her friend, her
guide, her consoler, in all trouble.  To this divine Friend and Father
she intrusted her sister; and now, with peace in her mind, its holy calm
being visible on her brow, she awaited the return of her family from
mass.

But, oh, how different were the feelings of her relatives!  Her parents
were trembling, lest Felicie should be chosen--Lisette was full of
triumphant consequence, and assumed an air of indifference--whilst
Caliste never raised her eyes from the ground, her long eyelashes resting
on a cheek, the brightness of which proclaimed the intensity of her
emotion.

The exhortation commenced, the subject for that day being on virtue and
wisdom, applicable to the future fete.  Then came a pause, and Monsieur
le Prieur rising, all present rose together, to hear what was the
determination of the Seigneur of Salency.

The chosen maidens alone retained their seats.  Caliste did not raise her
eyes; Lisette looked round for admiration; whilst Felicie seemed to feel
no more than the natural awkwardness of such a situation.  Not a sound
could be heard in the church, so attentively did all listen to the
priest.  At length he spoke, but the desired words fell not from his
lips; what he said was, however, greedily devoured.  A few minutes more
he held forth, and then added these words.  "The pure splendour of this
rose unique," he exclaimed, "is at once the price, the encouragement, and
the emblem of this our fairest Rosiere of Salency.  What more can I say,"
he demanded, "but that, lovely as this flower appears, yet for once it
will be excelled by her to whom its beauty is devoted.  Exquisite and
charming is virtue, devoid of the graces of youth and loveliness; but
when it is adorned with both, then it is irresistible.  My friends and
children, can you doubt to whom this description is applicable?  If so,
let doubt be banished from your minds, and receive with joy, in its
stead, Lisette Durocher, the chosen Rosiere of our noble and virtuous
Seigneur de Salency."

A burst of applause followed--the parents embraced their daughter,
shedding tears of joy, and the service being over, Madame la Baronne came
forward and saluted Lisette, whilst the neighbours crowded round to pour
forth their congratulations.

Felicie Durand had not expected to be elected; she had, therefore,
embraced her successful rival apparently unmoved, but not so her
companion.  Proudly did Caliste stand aloof; one tear only she had shed,
and that had dried ere it fell from her cheek, but casting only one look
of indignant anger on those paying court to Lisette, she hastily left the
church, wholly unregarded by her parents, and by all save Mimi, who alone
amidst that crowd had thought of her.

With a hurried step and throbbing heart did Caliste hasten to her home,
forgetful that Victorine was there, and entering the cottage, hastened to
her chamber, throwing herself upon her knees, and giving way to the
passions that raged fearfully within her.

"And is it come to this!" she exclaimed.  "Must I, the elder born, give
place to one, because that her cheek is fairer, and that the brightness
of her eye surpasses mine?  Miserable Caliste!  Unhappy, disgraced
creature!  How can I bear, rejected as I am, for a mere child to appear
in Salency?  How can my proud spirit bend, to treat with common courtesy
those who have passed me over for one so much more girlish than I am?"

Writhing in agony, she thus gave vent to her passion.  But suddenly she
was roused by soothing words whispered in her ear, and looking up, she
beheld Victorine, whose soft eyes were full of tears for her.

"My sister," said Victorine, "my dearest sister, give not way thus
fearfully to regret.  Mimi has sent me to you, Caliste.  Mimi, who loves
you, with tears bade me follow you hither."

Victorine, as she spoke, embraced her sister, and earnestly implored her
to be calm.

"That can I never be," she answered, "whilst I am rejected, and Lisette
triumphs."

"But, remember that she is our sister," whispered Victorine; "that her
election is happiness to our parents.  Dearest Caliste, wherefore be so
dispirited? we all love you dearly; let us not then grieve our parents by
not participating in their present cause of satisfaction."

"Victorine," replied her sister, "what cause have I to sooth my parents?
Have they forgotten that I, too, am their child, as well as Lisette?  Yes,
they have forgotten it, Victorine; and in the moment when I most need
their comfort, they have passed over their unhappy child, to triumph with
her who is triumphant.  No, I will not think of them," she added, "for
they have already forgotten me.  But, what am I saying--they no more
regard me; in Lisette's glory they have lost all remembrance of Caliste's
downfall."

"Do not say so," replied Victorine, "how proud they were at your being
chosen, Caliste; they love you dearly, and even now I dare say they are
seeking you."

"Victorine, you speak not what you know to be true," replied the excited
girl.  "Have not our father and mother continued to upbraid you from the
day we were chosen, even to this very morning, because your heresy has
prevented your trying to be Rosiere?  Would that it were you that were
elected, Victorine!  To you I could give up the rose with half the sorrow
I feel now."

"Ah! sister," she answered, "I thank God that I have not tried with you
and Lisette; your very words make me rejoice in my quiet situation.  You
say you could have given up the Rose to me, but only consider, and you
will acknowledge that that feeling would have passed from your mind the
moment that I tried for it, with a chance of success, considering my
right equal to your own.  Caliste, again and again must I thank my God
that I have not been in the struggle; and, oh! my beloved sister, what
would I give that you might be led to feel as I do, that happiness
consists in peace--that peace which the world cannot give nor cannot take
away; for it is not made up of perishable things which moth or rust can
corrupt, or thieves break through and steal!"

"Victorine," exclaimed Caliste, "I am no heretic; I cannot follow the
counsel you give; I must labour to gain praise, I must desire merit; and,
in ardently aspiring to gain this Rose, I but follow the wise injunctions
of a member of our church who has instituted this ceremony, which our
priests approve."

"But consider," replied Victorine, "what are the fruits of the Divine
Spirit as mentioned by the Apostle.  Are they not all in opposition to
such a display as our fete of the Rose?  All love is banished, Caliste,
at present from our house, and even our little Mimi is as excited as any
of us.  When love departs, my sister, peace must follow; and only now
perceive the state of our hearts.  In sympathy for you we must all
grieve; but sorry am I to own that even Mimi is roused to anger, and to
that jealousy which is the most mischievous of all feelings.  If, then,
peace is fled from us, we must be in error, and following the counsel of
those who are not really disciples of our Lord."

Whilst Victorine spoke, Caliste listened, and even seemed soothed by her
words.  "You may be right," she said, "in all you say, for of this I am
convinced, I should be much happier now if, like you, I had refused to
try for the Rose.  As it is, I shall never think of this day without
pain, neither can I feel for Lisette the affection I once felt for her
before we were rivals to each other.  From the first it has been a cause
of much sorrow to me, for, from the first, I was aware of the preference
given to Lisette; and from that moment I believe I have been in one
constant state of vexation or painful excitement."

At that moment Mimi came into the room to tell her sisters that their
parents were within sight; and, kissing Caliste warmly, the child
expressed her displeasure that she had not been the chosen Rosiere.  "Next
to you, Victorine," she said, "I am sure Caliste deserved it, and I know
it was only given to Lisette because she is a favourite at the chateau
through Madame Goton, the marchande-du-mode."

Victorine tried to silence the child, and succeeded by proposing that
they should go down to meet their friends, and scarcely were they in time
to receive the party.

Caliste had shed no tears, but the eyes of Mimi were red and inflamed,
and slight traces of the same kind of sorrow were visible on the
countenance of Victorine.  Mimi was not slow in explaining the cause of
her grief, for resolutely did she declare aloud, "that if Monsieur le
Baron only knew her sisters as well as she did, Victorine would be chosen
first, and Caliste next, before Lisette."

Sincerely did Victorine feel for her elder sister when the chosen Rosiere
entered the cottage.  With an air of affected indifference Lisette
replied to the congratulations of the neighbours, and even professed to
think that the choice had been a partial one.  "I could never fancy that
I should have to take precedence of an elder sister," she said, "and then
Felicie Durand is so charming a person that I assure you I felt it no
little compliment to be chosen in the trial with her and Caliste.  As the
youngest of the three you know, I could not have expected to be Rosiere,
for I am only sixteen, and Caliste is nearly three years older."

Thus did she enumerate, with an assumed air of innocent unconsciousness,
every reason she could think of for her own non-election--not so much to
vex Caliste, as she most assuredly did, as to raise her own merits the
more above her competitors; for she knew not these words of Holy Writ:
"If we live in the Spirit let us also walk in the Spirit, and let us not
be desirous of vain glory, provoking one another, and envying one
another;" "and favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that
feareth the Lord shall be praised."

But to speak of Caliste.  Whilst her sister thus called upon others to
compliment the idol of the day, she stood aloof, her speaking countenance
and flashing eye betokening her resentment.  It was useless for Victorine
to try, by whispered words of affection, to soothe her; Caliste smiled
fearfully as she returned her answer in low words, "Never, never," she
said, "can the sting in my bosom be removed.  Let the poison work,
Victorine, it is not your hand that has placed the venom there."

Sorrowing at her disappointment, Victorine would have led her from the
room, but she refused to accompany her.  "No, I will stay," she said, "I
will hear every reason why I am rejected, and my younger sister exalted
over my head."

Mimi heard these words; and the excited child, irritated at the sister
whom she least loved gaining the crown, turned towards Lisette and
passionately addressed her--"Lisette!" she exclaimed, "I wish you would
now forget you are Rosiere, surely we have had enough about it.  Let us
talk of something else, or, if you wish to go on, pray tell neighbour
Elise that Monsieur le Prieur himself said that Victorine would be the
chosen of all if she would attend mass with us; did he not, mother?"
inquired the child; "and did he not come here and talk for an hour to
Victorine, two months ago? and did he not promise her, if she would
attend mass, she should be the Rosiere this year, and that she should
publicly become a member of our congregation on the same day?  So, after
all, Lisette," she added, "if Victorine had pleased, she would now be the
Rosiere."

"You do not know what you are saying, child!" exclaimed Lisette, for a
moment assuming the angry countenance of Caliste.  "You have not got a
correct account of what happened, Mam'selle Mimi."

"Yes, but I have," she answered; "though I know you don't like to hear of
it, Lisette.  Uncle Dorsain," she added, addressing him, "you might have
had all three of your nieces chosen by the Salenciens instead of Felicie
Durand."

Whilst Mimi had been speaking, Victorine had left the apartment to make
preparations for their dinner, or else she would probably have tried to
stop her little sister; as it was, the child, who feared no one else, and
who often felt much annoyed by Lisette's assumption of her rights, was
glad to mortify her.  Lisette and Mimi had both been somewhat spoilt as
the two youngest, and the extraordinary beauty of Lisette made her still
a favourite and often a successful competitor over Mimi with their
parents.  And now, this rivalship was manifested by the eager desire of
the child to repeat what she knew would vex her sister.  "Uncle Dorsain,"
were her words, "ask my mother if she might not have had my three sisters
chosen together, instead of Felicie Durand."

"That she might!" exclaimed Durocher, proudly, but with an air of
vexation; "and had you, Mimi, been Victorine, that triumph would have
been obtained by our family.  Most anxious is Monsieur le Prieur, brother
Dorsain, for the conversion of Victorine: it is astonishing what pains
the good father has taken with the girl; and it is only a few weeks ago
he came here to assure her he would secure the crown to her if she would
attend mass regularly.  The girl obstinately refused the offer, and it
was in anger that he left us."

"And wherefore did she refuse?" inquired Dorsain.

"It was all obstinate folly," replied Valmont; "she declared herself
happy without it; and even went so far as to quote Scripture against the
fete of the Rose."

"What could she say?" demanded the quiet Dorsain, all astonishment.

"She said what is very true!" exclaimed Mimi; "she told us it would make
us unhappy and dissatisfied with each other, and the words she used from
Scripture, uncle Dorsain, were these: 'Follow peace with all men, and
holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord; lest any root of
bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled.'"

"And she called the fete of the Rosiere a root of bitterness!" exclaimed
Lisette.  "Did you ever hear such nonsense, uncle?"

"I do not think it nonsense," said Mimi; "I think Victorine was very
right."

"You are too young to judge Mimi;" replied Lisette, "when you are as old
as Monsieur le Prieur, you will probably agree with a wise man in
preference to a young girl of seventeen."

Mimi, in warmth, took up Victorine's cause; and it was with some
difficulty their father silenced them; but the quiet D'Elsac was much
struck with what had passed, and his eyes were gradually opening to the
fact that Victorine was indeed right, and that the root of bitterness was
springing up in the family of his sister.

When once the idea was raised, he became much alarmed, considering the
purport of his visit.  "Victorine, there is no doubt, is the most
sensible of her family," he thought, "but I could not think of having a
heretic in my house: then, Caliste looks so fiery, and Lisette is so
selfish, and Mimi is so passionate, that I dare not offer a home to any
of them.  Well, I have not, at present, mentioned the purport of my
journey hither; and, if things continue as I fear they will, I shall
certainly travel back alone."

On the following morning Lisette, dressed in her holiday attire, went to
the chateau to pay her compliments to Madame la Baronne de Salency.  The
young girl really looked uncommonly beautiful, and her mother, in pride,
having embraced her, watched her up the village street, expressing aloud
to her brother her satisfaction in being parent to such a child.

Dorsain felt that his sister's rose had many a thorn; he did not say so,
however, though the words trembled on his lips, and the thought would not
be banished from his mind; and, for the first time in his life, he
rejoiced that he was childless.  But D'Elsac was in such a deep darkness
then, that, beholding faults in his nearest and dearest connexions, made
him look upon men with disgust; for he saw not, nor knew of that blood of
the Lamb, which, "though men's sins be as scarlet, yet shall it wash them
white as snow."

When Lisette returned she had much, very much, to say on the
condescending kindness of Madame, neither did she hesitate to add a
little to that lady's words.

"Monsieur le Baron will conduct me himself from our cottage," she said;
"for he has promised not to go to Paris till the ninth of June, on
purpose to be present at the fete of the Rose, which is to be held at his
chateau, and Madame asked me whom I had chosen for my companions for the
day, and she was pleased to express a wish that Victorine should be
amongst the number."

"But Victorine never goes to mass!" exclaimed Mimi, "and you know the
Rosiere always attends vespers."

"Well, that wont signify," replied Lisette, tossing her head, "for once
in a way Victorine may oblige a sister."

"Anything else I would willingly do, dear Lisette," replied Victorine,
"but my parents having permitted me to stay away from mass, I cannot
accompany you."

"But Madame has commanded your attendance!" exclaimed Lisette.

"She has no power to command me to do anything I think wrong," replied
Victorine, "and in this point I must not obey her; with my mother's
permission I will go up to the chateau, and excuse myself for opposing
her wishes."

"How unkind of you, Victorine!" said Lisette, bursting into a passion of
tears, "for I told Madame you would be sure to accompany me, and she said
it would improve the procession if my two sisters followed me and the
Baron."

Victorine appeared vexed, and, taking Lisette's hand, she said, "would
you wish me to do what I think wrong to give you an hour's amusement?  I
cannot act against my conscience, dear sister.  I cannot accompany you to
chapel."

Lisette flung her hand from her as she replied, "Do as you like,
Victorine, but it is hard that the very reason which makes me elected
Rosiere should cause such jealousy in my two elder sisters.  I might have
hoped that Caliste and Victorine would rejoice in the honour done me."

Victorine appeared more and more grieved by this answer, but she said no
more; and, having obtained her mother's consent, she went to the chateau
to excuse herself to Madame la Baronne.

That lady received her kindly, and even approved her conduct, though she
did not agree in her opinions.  She regretted her remaining an alien from
the Romish church, and promised her, if she would renounce her heresy,
she should be the elected Rosiere of the following year.  But this offer
did not tempt Victorine; she could not behold the unhappy state of her
sisters without dreading to become their rival.

Madame then expressed her hope that Victorine would accompany her sister
to the fete at the chateau; and, with a complimentary message to her
mother, she dismissed the young girl.

And now came the important business of preparing dresses for the fete.
The Rosiere and her twelve female friends were all to be attired in
white, and all, with the exception of the Rosiere, were to wear blue
ribbon scarfs placed over one shoulder and tied under the other.  They
were to have no coverings on their heads, for the fete was in the warm
month of June, but the Rosiere was to wear a crown of roses, made by her
twelve friends.

Now D'Elsac was an hourly witness of the patience of Victorine.  She it
was who made her sister's dresses, for Lisette was in and out of the
cottage every instant to talk of the fete, whilst Caliste felt too
bitterly to set herself to work for an affair which she could not bear to
think about.  Mimi was too young, and the mother too old to employ
themselves, and thus it was left to Victorine, who had never expected
aught of pleasure in the affair.

One morning Dorsain entered the cottage, and found Victorine working as
usual, whilst Caliste was seated near her, her employment cast from her,
and her whole appearance expressing the utmost dejection.  At sight of
her uncle she roused herself, and for a short time her excessive mirth,
and even the great wit with which she spoke, astonished him.  The quiet
man was somewhat startled by her manner, and he looked at her earnestly,
half alarmed by her wild and extravagant merriment.  He soon remarked
that the smile seemed only to be on her lip, for every now and then her
countenance changed, and expressed the deep dejection he had noticed on
his entrance.  He saw too that Victorine laughed not with her, and did
all that was in her power to check her exuberant gaiety.  The steady look
that Dorsain gave her at once put to flight all assumed merriment; she
suddenly ceased speaking, sighed deeply, then throwing her working
materials farther from her, with a hasty movement, she left the
apartment.

Victorine's employment, too, fell from her hand; with the tear in her
eyes she looked after her sister, then, echoing her sigh, she set herself
with a sad heart to finish the work which must be done, and which
necessarily detained her from comforting Caliste.

"Your sister, Victorine, seems far from well," said Dorsain; "know you
what ails her?"

"Dear uncle," she replied, "Caliste will not now acknowledge even to me
what vexes her; but it is easy to see she feels most bitterly the losing
the Rosiere's crown."

D'Elsac for some minutes seemed lost in thought.  "Poor girl!" he
murmured, "poor girl!  I should not have thought it would have so
disappointed her."

"You forget, then, how she is situated," replied Victorine.  "From
infancy has Caliste been taught to aspire to the rose, every year has she
ardently expected it; now this time her name is on the list, and her own
sister, younger by three years, steps forward and takes it from her.  Our
parents, too, rejoice with the child that rejoices; they love one
daughter equally with the other; they are content that the Rosiere is in
their family, and they, perhaps, have not given it a thought that the
greater the triumph is to Lisette, the greater is the defeat to poor
Caliste.  Then, alas! my sister has none to look to for comfort, and she
is overwhelmed with despair; she has been tried for worldly virtue and
goodness, and she has been rejected; and she is now writhing under the
shame, and unable and unwilling to turn to Him who says, 'Come unto me
all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take
my yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and
ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"

D'Elsac had already been led to see that Victorine was right in refusing
to be a rival to her sister; he was therefore inclined to listen to what
she said, though he tried to make himself believe that, as she was a
heretic, he should not be led by her in anything; however, he went on
conversing with her about Caliste, and even about Lisette.  Victorine
could not deny that Lisette in her selfish triumph spared no opportunity
of exalting herself at the expense of Caliste, neither could she excuse
this sister from the fault that Dorsain charged her, with cruelly
rejoicing in every pang of jealousy that the poor girl suffered.  Though
Victorine could not excuse her conduct, yet she laid it to its right
source, the total ignorance of Lisette on religious subjects, who
considered an outward appearance of virtue sufficient in the eyes of a
just God, and that the guidance of the thoughts and evil passions of the
heart were only so far necessary as to obtain for herself the perishable
Rosiere's crown.

D'Elsac inquired if after the ceremony the Rosiere was peculiarly noticed
amongst the Salenciens.

"Monsieur de Montforlaine has given an annual rent of one hundred and
twenty livres to the Rosiere," replied Victorine, "and this gives the
office some consequence.  Those too who have been Rosieres are always
treated with respect in Salency, even after their reign is over."

"Then Caliste will have to endure Lisette's superiority very long," said
Dorsain.

"Till the time she is herself Rosiere," she replied; "at least whilst she
remains in Salency."

Here a pause ensued, during which D'Elsac saw the tears roll fast down
the cheeks of Victorine, so as almost to prevent her continuing her
employment.  He was a kind-hearted man, and grieved to see her tears.
"Victorine," he said, lowering his voice, "you have no idea what business
it was that brought me to Salency; your aunt D'Elsac is not so strong as
she was some years back; she wants an assistant, and she would prefer a
niece to a stranger."

"Then you will take Caliste!" she exclaimed; "you will take Caliste from
Salency, will you not, uncle Dorsain?"

The good man looked annoyed as he replied, "My dear Victorine I love
quiet; how could my wife and myself endure the haughty and proud airs of
Caliste?  No, Victorine, it was not Caliste I desired to adopt as a
daughter."

Victorine could not but understand the kind old gentleman's words; she
kissed his hand in token of her gratitude, and then with many thanks she
tried with caution to make him comprehend her situation.  "If it but
depended upon myself," she said, "oh, how happy would it make me to live
so near Swisserland; so near my oldest and dearest friends; so near my
first, my happiest home; so near my beloved aunt Pauline's grave; but no,
uncle Dorsain; no, I must not think of it; I have a duty to perform here.
I ought to comfort Caliste, and I only can, because she feels that the
Rosiere is a younger sister to me, as well as to herself."

D'Elsac could not be offended by such a refusal.  "Victorine," he said,
"pray tell me upon what motive do you act?"

She smiled, though the tear still trembled on her eyelid, as she replied
playfully, "By the same motive, uncle Dorsain, which you acknowledged
just now.  I too love peace.  I love it dearly, but pardon me if I say
that the peace after which I pursue is not of so transient a nature as
yours.  You seek but the peace of good nature and cheerful countenances.
My peace is the peace of the heart; the peace that a young child feels
upon its mother's knee.  My Heavenly Father's arms I know are around me;
they will, I feel assured, never be withdrawn; and whilst I do what He
points out as right to be done, the peace and confidence of the loved
child no earthly power can take from my mind.  Dear uncle, Dorsain, I
must not then accept your kind offer, for I must now give the comfort of
sympathy to my sorrowing Caliste; and if I left her now, peace would be
banished from my mind, for I should be acting against my conscience, and
that ever brings punishment in its rear."

"When I hear you speak, my dear niece," said Dorsain, "my conscience
gives me many a pang for my unbrotherly conduct to that dear sister
Pauline who performed the tender part of mother to you Victorine.  Though
a few miles, comparatively a few miles, separated us when I heard that my
sister was a heretic, I at once determined to associate with her no more,
and now that I have the will, the power is no longer mine to visit her."

"Your estrangement was a great grief to my dear aunt," replied Victorine,
"and had not my uncle's very bad health disabled him, he or my aunt would
have forced upon you a visit; but he was too ill to leave home, and she
had no one to take her place with him or with me, and before I was old
enough to assist her he was no more, and circumstances were changed with
us.  She did, however, to the last, often talk of you, hoping you would
meet, if not in this world, in the next."

More was said upon this subject, and it was not till some time afterwards
that the conversation was renewed, when D'Elsac said, "Then I must take
Lisette, I suppose, with me to Grenoble, for when you flatter her she is
good tempered, and I own I am afraid of Caliste."

"Lisette will not, I think, leave Salency whilst she is Rosiere," replied
her sister.  "She could not make up her mind, I fear, to give up her
crown, thorny as it appears to others."

"I will ask her," replied D'Elsac, "but I acknowledge to you, Victorine,
I rather hope a refusal.  If you will not return with me, I prefer the
hired labour of a stranger."

Dorsain then sought Lisette to learn her mind.  He found her deep in
consultation about the only subject that now occupied her; and, as
Victorine expected, she refused at once the invitation, scarcely deigning
to clothe her answer in courteous terms.

"Well, I am heartily glad of it," thought her uncle.  "She has no pity
for her sister's disappointment; she thinks of nothing but herself.  What
peace could I have hoped for in my family with an inmate so fearfully
selfish?"

D'Elsac was thus, as it were, forced to think of Caliste; but it was with
such repugnance that he could not make up his mind to offer to her the
situation he had offered her sisters.  He had never seen her brow
unclouded; never seen that beautiful lip divested of its scorn never
heard one expression from her that did not betray a mind full of
vexation, jealousy, and passion.  To her, therefore, he would not address
himself, though he watched her with great anxiety, allowing the days to
pass till the 8th of June, the morning of the fete of St. Medard.

What a beautiful and lovely morning was that in Salency, and how eagerly
did the eyes of all the family of Durocher regard the weather, though
very different were their feelings on the subject!  Lisette had been kept
awake by the thought of her approaching triumph; Caliste, too, had not
slept; but her pale countenance and hollow eye told a tale of sorrow and
dejection.

Scarcely was a word spoken at the morning's meal, save by Valmont, his
wife, and Lisette.  Caliste refused to eat, but, urged by Victorine, she
drank some coffee, though she would not, or could not, taste any food.
D'Elsac regarded her with grief, for he feared he knew not what by her
manner.

The repast being over, and their parents gone, Lisette, annoyed at the
silence on the affairs of the day, introduced it herself, by demanding of
Victorine, "If she still refused to accompany her to the chapel."

"My parents, and Madame La Baronne, have accepted my apologies, Lisette,"
she said, "I wish that you too were content; I shall watch you to the
chapel doors, and even hope to be present at your fete this evening."

"I wish you would dispense with my company also!" exclaimed Caliste with
a bitter tone; "for, to confess the truth, my head throbs fearfully, so
that I can scarce endure the pain it gives me."

"What!" exclaimed Lisette, "do you too refuse to accompany me, Caliste;
alas! how unfortunate am I, possessing as I do three sisters, and yet
there is not one amongst them who rejoices in my triumph."

"Because you are so often cross and ill-tempered," replied Mimi; "and if
people will be cross, and will be ill-tempered, they cannot expect that
others will love them."

Lisette deigned not to notice these words of her young sister; but,
turning to Caliste, she inquired, "If she really was so very unamiable as
to determine to stay from her fete."

"If you felt the intolerable anguish in your head that I do in mine,"
replied Caliste, "you would think _me_ very unamiable to press you to
go."

"But I cannot, nor will not dispense with your company, Caliste," was her
answer; "unless Victorine will go in your stead.  You can wear the same
dress; for how odd it would look if I had no sister with me!"

"Indeed," replied Caliste, with an air of nonchalance, "_I_ will not ask
Victorine to go in my stead, neither will I promise to go myself.  Cannot
you take Mimi in my place?"

"Mimi," repeated Lisette; "why, she is at least a head shorter than
Felicie Durand; for, if she goes instead of you, Caliste, she must walk
with Felicie."  "No," Caliste, "I will not have Mimi," she added, "and I
will appeal to my father to command you to go."

"In your selfish triumph, Lisette," exclaimed Caliste, with bitterness,
"you seem wholly to forget the feelings of your relatives!  I tell you
again that my head is in that state, it will half kill me to go to the
fete."

She said no more, but walked out of the room, and up stairs, where
Victorine found her some time afterwards, extended on a bed in a restless
and feverish state, between sleeping and waking.  But as Caliste left the
room, Victorine with much gentleness proposed that they should seek some
other young girl to fill the place of Caliste in the procession.  "Indeed,
indeed, Lisette," she said, "our sister is far from well, and I fear the
excitement of the day will make her worse."

"It is only a jealous fit," replied the Rosiere; "only a jealous fit,
sister Victorine, and nothing shall induce me to give up her attendance."

"But if it is what you say it is," exclaimed Victorine, "dearest Lisette,
are you not irritating, instead of soothing your patient!  My sister, vex
her no more; you have obtained the crown from her; is not that
sufficient? must you triumph over her also?"

"Pshaw," replied Lisette, sullenly, "I like to punish jealous people, it
does them good."

"But can you be happy?" said Victorine; "can you be at peace, when
another is suffering, I grieve to own, severely?"

"And why not?" she answered.  "If Caliste could, she would have been
Rosiere, and would not then have cared for my feelings.  I have no
necessity, then, to spare hers.  You are sufficiently unkind, Victorine,
to remain at home, pray content yourself with doing so, without keeping
my other sister with you also."

Dorsain, who was present, ventured to put in a word in this place.
"Really Lisette," he said, "I would caution you not to urge Caliste too
much, she looks exceedingly ill."

"Monsieur D'Elsac," replied the Rosiere, "allow us young people, I
entreat, to settle this matter amongst ourselves.  We shall fight it out
very amicably together, but when others interfere with us it only makes
matters worse."

The quiet man drew back, only venturing to say, "Well Mam'selle Lisette,
do as you propose; settle the matter, amongst yourselves, but let it be
quite among yourselves--let no fourth person be brought in."

"Well said, uncle Dorsain!" exclaimed Mimi; "well said, uncle Dorsain!
Mind, Lisette, you are not to ask our father to command Caliste to do as
_you_ please; mind that, Lisette--mind that."

"You are all against me, I see," replied Lisette, shedding tears for very
passion--"you are all against me; but I might have expected it.  I might
have known others would be annoyed at any preference shown to me."

She left the room as she spoke, and in half an hour afterwards Caliste
was sent for by her father, who commanded her to accompany her sister to
the chapel.

"I will obey you, sir!" exclaimed Caliste, proudly, as she raised her
throbbing head, and gazed fixedly on her father.  "Yes, I will obey you,
sir, whatever it may cost me!"

Dorsain was alarmed by the wild expression of her eye as she spoke, and
he even ventured to hint his fears to Valmont on her departure, but the
father laughed them to scorn, declaring it was, as Lisette said, mere
jealousy; and if she stayed away from the ceremony it would injure her
character fearfully in all Salency.

"She must learn to command herself," he added, "she is now nineteen; and
if she cannot command herself now, what will become of her?"

Thus ill or well was poor Caliste to be dragged through the ceremony; and
after an early dinner the family of Durocher retired to dress.  Victorine,
who was soon ready, went to assist Caliste, whom she found seated by the
side of the bed, her head resting on the pillow.  At sight of her sister
she rose, assumed an air of astonishment at her own idleness, and
hastened to arrange her hair.  Victorine wished not to encourage this
frame of mind, she therefore offered to dress her sister's hair, and to
fasten her gown; and as she did so she could scarcely restrain her tears
for Caliste's disappointment.  She longed to speak some kind word to
comfort or sooth her, but how could she do so, for pity suits not a proud
heart, and Victorine felt it was not a moment to say anything that
_might_ make her worse.

Victorine, however, making some excuse for leaving the room, urged
Margoton to permit Caliste to remain at home; but the mother, not alarmed
herself, saw nothing to fear, and, with her husband, agreed that she
would lose her character as an amiable girl, if she stayed away from
chapel.  What, then, could Victorine do? she could but dress her sister
in silence, though in her heart she grieved most bitterly for her.

Victorine, on looking at her sparkling eye and blooming countenance, was
struck by an unnatural beauty that glowed there; and she made some remark
which escaped from her lips ere she was aware that in beauty the Rosiere
had forced upon herself a rival.

In reply, Caliste warmly embraced her sister, and, as if softened by the
action, her natural feelings found vent; and whilst her head still rested
on her sister's shoulder she exclaimed, "Dearest Victorine! what would I
not give if I had never been a rival to Lisette; what on earth can ever
repay me for my lost peace?  Oh, you know not how I sigh for peace--peace
not for my body only, but for my mind.  Too late have I found out that
you, indeed, my own Victorine, have learnt the secret of true
happiness--for you have found out the path of peace; and if I am spared
but another day, be you my instructor in that path, and then will you be
my guide to heaven."

Victorine could no longer restrain her tears.

"Weep not for me," said Caliste, soothingly, "weep not for me, dear
Victorine.  Alas! if you but knew the feelings of my heart only a moment
back, you would loath me, and cast me from you.  Ah! shall I ever know
peace again?"

The voice of Valmont was now heard calling for Caliste, and hastily did
she embrace Victorine, and descend the stairs.  She looked round her on
entering the sitting room, but her eye rested not on any one object; but
there were all the family assembled, dressed in their best, the Rosiere
impatiently expecting her companions.

At sight of Caliste her brow clouded over; for she could not but be aware
that for this day, when least she had desired it, her sister's beauty
would outshine her own.  Turning to Victorine, she pettishly asked her,
"Wherefore she had not attended to _her_ dress as well as to Caliste's?
Is there any fault in it?" she said, "for I suppose I shall be most
regarded; I pray you, Victorine, set it right, if any fault is visible."

In a short time the twelve young girls, the companions of the Rosiere,
were assembled in the cottage.  They were all drest in white, with blue
ribbon scarfs tied under the left shoulder, the two ends floating at the
pleasure of the wearer.  They were some of the best-looking maidens in
the village; but none could compete with the daughters of Durocher.  An
equal number of youths wearing the Rosiere's livery of the blue ribbon
scarf now made their appearance, and with them came a band of music, and
soon the village street was filled by the inhabitants.  The Rosiere
having spoken a few words to her own attendants, chose to retire till
sent for to head the procession; but Victorine remained with Caliste,
who, seating herself in a corner of the apartment, was watching all that
passed with a look of proud contempt.

Suddenly the band struck up in loud and joyous tones, the youths unfurled
their banners, the maidens drew together, and Lisette appeared from the
innermost apartment to receive the Seigneur de Salency.  The next minute
he had entered the cottage, and advancing towards her, addressed her as
the Rosiere, and claimed his right of leading her to the church.

Lisette bowed as she listened to his compliments, then, ere she gave him
her hand, she approached her parents, and on her knee asked their
blessing, bending down her head to receive it.

"And now I claim the honour of leading off the fairest of Rosieres!"
exclaimed the Seigneur, raising her from her kneeling attitude, and
leading her by the hand to the cottage door.

Margoton shed tears of joy at the honour done her child, for the Seigneur
seldom claimed his right of leading the Rosiere to church; indeed he
spent most of his time in the capital, and seldom was present at the fete
of the Rose.  The neighbours crowded round to compliment the parents; and
none thought of Caliste but Victorine and Dorsain.

As Lisette and the Seigneur reached the cottage door they paused for the
maidens and youths, whose business it was to attend the Rosiere; and
then, as Caliste rose from her seat to accompany her sister, her head
became so confused, that had not Victorine been near at hand, she would
have certainly fallen to the ground.  Victorine would have pleaded her
cause to their mother, but Margoton was too much occupied with their
friends, and Caliste also, feeling that it was but a momentary affection,
declared she would proceed.

"Lean upon me, dear niece," said the kind hearted Dorsain, "my arm will
support you if you must make one in this procession."

This unexpected tenderness roused all that was amiable in the mind of
Caliste, and with the impetuosity of her nature which made her too often
show her contempt of her neighbours and acquaintances, she seized her
uncle's hand and pressed it to her lips.  "Our Lady bless you!" she
murmured; "our Lady bless you for your kindness to me, but yet I must not
accept of it, for you must not mingle among the Rosiere's attendants."

Victorine, in alarm for her sister, and yet very unwilling to appear at
mass, applied to one of the young girls, imploring her whisperingly to
watch over Caliste, who she feared was seriously ill.  Scarce had she
time for this before the procession commenced, the band and banners
preceding the Rosiere, who leant on the arm of the Seigneur de Salency,
then came the young girls dressed in white, with the blue scarfs tied
under their aims, amongst which the now excited Caliste walked with a
stateliness that could not but command attention; and lastly came the
youths, twelve in number, wearing the Rosiere's livery.

On did the musicians and procession pass between two rows of spectators,
down the village street, followed by Lisette in conscious triumph; once
only did she turn her head to see her train of attendants who came behind
her, but her eye resting on the almost unnatural beauty of Caliste, who
walked next to her, struck with envy at beholding it, all the
self-conceit of her own countenance passed away; and Dorsain, who had
remarked her glance, saw that even in this hour of triumph the Rosiere
was not content, for she felt she had a rival--a successful rival in
beauty.

As D'Elsac watched the speaking countenances of the two sisters, he could
have wept for very grief.  Here were two girls whose beauty was
pre-eminent, highly gifted by Providence, and possessing in reality all
that could make life desirable; but, instead of being happy and content,
the love of admiration had rendered the one miserable till her bodily
health had suffered, and the other even in her success was envious of
that beauty which illness bestowed upon her rival.  Then did his thoughts
wander to Victorine, and he turned towards the cottage, but she was not
in sight, and he could not but recollect how she had refused the offer of
the Rosiere's crown because she knew it would drive all love and peace
from her mind.  Yes, you are right, Victorine, he thought; true, most
true, are your words; this distinction is indeed a root of bitterness,
and, unless you can point out a method of extraction, much I fear has its
influence taken an immovable hold upon the minds of your unhappy sisters.

The procession had now reached the church, and, Lisette being led to the
centre of the aisles, she was visible to all around.  A Prie Dieu or
kneeling stool was then placed for her use, and the service of vespers
commenced, being led by Monsieur le Prieur, the same priest who
pronounced her the Rosiere.  The maidens and the youths surrounded her,
but she was distinguished from amongst her young companions by being all
in white, for she wore no scarf, such being the wonted custom at Salency.

Whilst the service continued D'Elsac anxiously watched the countenance of
Caliste, and more than once he was half tempted to step forwards and lead
her from the church; every eager gaze, every look cast upon Lisette was a
source of jealousy to Caliste.  She could not forget that as the elder
she ought to have been in her sister's stead; she could not either forget
that Victorine too had refused that crown which Lisette would soon
obtain, and which she herself so ardently desired, and as the service was
chaunted in a tongue she knew but imperfectly, she attended not to the
words, her whole thoughts being engrossed in comparing Lisette to
Victorine.  Like Dorsain she was led to acknowledge the superiority of
the one sister's principles over the other.  The one had refused to
strive with her lest she should make her miserable, the other had striven
and made her miserable.

Bitterly did Caliste rue this strife; but, through the blessing of God
upon the words of Victorine, this poor girl for the first time loathed
herself, and her own vile nature which made her envious of a sister's
prosperity.  Caliste was alarmed at this insight she had obtained of her
own heart, and she was troubled so much within herself, that she rose
suddenly clasping her hands; and, had not those near her restrained her,
she would have fled from the church to seek her sister--that sister who
had told her with tears of the depravity of the human heart.  "Oh,
Victorine!" she inwardly exclaimed, "what would I give to be like you; to
possess feelings like yours, which are at peace with God and man; for me,
wretch that I am, I am jealous of my own sister; and I tremble before a
God who knows my inmost thoughts."

Impatiently did she wait the concluding service, her countenance changing
every instant with the workings of her mind, whilst D'Elsac, as he
watched her, became in a short time almost as excited as herself.

But the service was concluded, and again the Seigneur took the hand of
the Rosiere to lead her from the church, and this time the priests headed
the procession.  Whilst moving Caliste seemed more easy, she felt the
affair would soon be concluded; but though she could not urge on the
party, yet still in hopes of soon being at liberty to converse with her
beloved Victorine, she was certainly more composed.  They had now reached
the chapel of St. Medard where the Rosiere was to be crowned, and
gradually did the procession enter the ready open doors.  The Seigneur
led Lisette to the high altar, where Monsieur le Prieur was ready to
receive her.  Here she was bid to kneel before the priest, and, for the
first time that day did the cheek of Lisette turn paler than heretofore.
She bent her beautiful head upon her bosom, whilst her suppliant attitude
and her extreme youth made D'Elsac for awhile forget her selfish conduct,
and to feel with Margoton there was cause to triumph in being so nearly
connected to that fair young creature.  All the villagers stood round;
the Rosiere's crown, being then taken from the high altar, was presented
to Monsieur le Prieur by a priest.

The crown was formed of the loveliest roses that could be procured in
Salency; the flowers were wove together by a blue ribbon, the two ends of
which hung down gracefully, being bound together by a ring of silver.
This custom was instituted by Louis XIII. who, whilst staying at Varennes
in the neighbourhood of Salency, sent his captain of the guard to the
village to present the Rosiere with some blue ribbons, and a silver ring
to wear at her coronation.

Kneeling did Lisette wait to be crowned, whilst Monsieur le Prieur
standing over her held the crown in his hand above her head, first
blessing it, and then commencing a discourse on wisdom and virtue, which
lasted perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, during which the object of the
fete was never allowed an instant to be forgotten.  He ceased, and was
just preparing to place the crown upon the head of Lisette; the first
note of the organ began to be heard, commencing the solemn Te Deum, when
a piercing shriek was heard through the chapel, the music ceased, the
roses dropt from the hand of the priest, and all looked earnestly for the
cause of the interruption.

The shriek had come from the lips of Caliste, and, it was evident, that
now she could no longer restrain emotions which had distracted her heart
for days and days.  She approached her sister, her eyes frightfully
extended, her whole countenance glowing with excitement, and, laying her
hand on the crown, she exclaimed, "It is Victorine's! it is Victorine's!
Victorine is Rosiere!  Victorine alone deserves to wear this crown."  She
would have said more, her gestures and her features betraying the utmost
excitement, when suddenly her countenance changed, her eyes became fixed,
and, again uttering a piercing shriek, she fell backwards into the
extended arms of her uncle.

What a scene of confusion ensued, the ceremony still unfinished, whilst
the parents of Caliste rushed forwards to the unhappy girl, forgetting in
their alarm all thought of the Rosiere.  The next instant Caliste was
borne from the chapel, whilst the villagers, most of them followed, many
eager to know the result, and many from real anxiety to assist the
sorrowing parents.  Thus, in a moment, was the chapel almost deserted
save by the astonished and overpowered Dorsain, the neglected Rosiere,
the Seigneur, and the officiating priests.

"I thought it would come to this!" exclaimed the uncle after a painful
silence; "I thought it would.  Caliste has not been herself for the last
week: poor girl, poor Caliste! the disappointment I am afraid will make
her seriously ill."

"Oh, it is but the heat of the day I trust uncle," replied the offended
and angry Rosiere, rising from her knees before the altar, and arranging
her crown which had been but awkwardly placed on her head.  "I can assure
you I felt it very much myself just now.  I have no doubt Caliste will be
well enough to dance at the fete this evening."

The kind-hearted man shook his head mournfully as he said, "My dear
niece, I am afraid you are deceiving yourself.  I am afraid your poor
sister is seriously indisposed."

"Let us hope for the best," interposed the Seigneur de Salency kindly.

"Ay, uncle, let us hope for the best as Monsieur le Seigneur says,"
exclaimed Lisette.  "I can't believe myself it is anything more than the
heat, judging by my own feelings."

At that moment Mimi ran into the chapel, her eyes red with weeping.
"Uncle Dorsain," she said, "my mother has sent me to you to beg you to
stay with Lisette till she can come to be with her.  Caliste is very ill
I fear," added the affectionate child, "very, very ill.  She does not
know any one but Victorine; she has called so often for Victorine, and
she will not loose her hand, but keeps her close to her side.  Poor, poor
Caliste!" she continued with passion, "I hope that you are now content
Lisette, you have killed Caliste by your triumphing over her as you have
done."

Lisette was not in a humour to bear this affront, and she was about to
make a very angry retort on the child, when she perceived that the
villagers were once again entering the chapel to see the conclusion of
the ceremony, so turning to her uncle, she whispered, "You see they do
not want you at home, uncle Dorsain, so you may as well stay with me."

D'Elsac whispered to Mimi to run and tell her mother that he would remain
with Lisette; and the chapel being once again filled, Monsieur le Prieur,
laying his spread hands upon the Rosiere's crown, repeated a blessing,
and the organ again commenced a Te Deum.

The procession then left the chapel of St. Medard, and in a spot chosen
for the purpose was the Rosiere presented with a bouquet of flowers, an
arrow, and two balls, such being the custom for many generations, and
still carried on, though the reason for presenting these particular
offerings is completely forgotten in Salency.

It was now the hour of the fete, and though usually the Rosiere returns
to her home, yet Lisette would not do so, fearful lest she should be
detained there; so taking the unwilling arm of D'Elsac she accompanied
the villagers to the chateau where the fete was to be given.  It was
during this walk that Lisette gave full vent to the bitter passions then
raging in her bosom.  She abused Caliste, calling her selfish and
jealous; she blamed her parents for indulging her by remaining at home;
she called Victorine a hypocrite and unsisterly, and, as to little Mimi,
her displeasure against her knew no bounds.  "Never was any Rosiere so
neglected by her own family as I have been," she said; "and even now at
my own fete, they choose to remain absent."

She shed tears of passion as she thus poured forth her selfish sorrow,
whilst her uncle made no reply, in silence listening to her words.

On arriving at the chateau the Rosiere was received with shouts of
applause; and, before one dance was concluded, Lisette to all appearance
had forgotten that she had a sister existing.  Not so Dorsain; he sate
apart from the villagers, watching the thoughtless and unfeeling girl,
his affectionate heart picturing to himself the sorrow of his sister's
family.  Surely the time _must_ come, he thought, when the eyes of
Lisette will be opened.  Surely she cannot long remain in such total
ignorance of her own bad conduct.  And this is the Rosiere, the chosen
maiden of the village!  Oh, Salenciens, how ignorant must you be! how
dark must be your state when, judging only by outward seemings, you
crowned this girl for virtue!  D'Elsac shed tears when he thought of
this, and when he remembered that Caliste was the one chosen next to her
sister, he wept still more bitterly for the state of the human race in
general.  Alas! he inquired, where does virtue dwell?  It has been
imagined to leave the crowded cities, and to reside in lowly cottages;
but here, as it were, are the hearts of two peasant girls laid open for
our inspection, and, oh! how black and sinful do they appear.  D'Elsac
sorrowed as one without hope, for his religion taught him that without
merit no man can see the Lord; and still grieving he felt the hand of
some person upon his shoulder, and looking round he perceived it was
Margoton.

"Brother," she said, "our dear child is, I trust, better.  I have left
Victorine to attend her, indeed she will not let Victorine go out of her
sight; but Valmont thought we had better make our appearance, if only for
an hour, at Lisette's fete.  The Seigneur has shown much kindness and
condescension to Lisette, and it would not do for us to appear
inattentive for so much goodness, though I must own I shall not be easy
till I return to my poor child."

"Then if you must stay here," said Dorsain, "if you must do so much
violence to your feelings, I think you had better go nearer to those who
are dancing."

"Yes, I know I ought," she answered, "but I am ashamed for my children's
sake.  Too, too many suspect the cause of my poor Caliste's illness.  Oh,
Dorsain, how proud I was of my two daughters! how neglectful of
Victorine! and now my beautiful girls make me blush for them, and my
modest Victorine by her own unobtrusiveness has attracted, it is true,
but little admiration, yet nothing but respect and love can be attached
to her name."

"But Lisette," inquired Dorsain, with an air of astonishment, for though
he had heard words from her lips during their walk to the chateau that
made him ashamed for her, yet he believed they were known only to
himself.  "What of Lisette, sister?"

"Look at her now!" exclaimed her mother.  "Look at her, Dorsain.  Would
you think by her countenance that at this moment the sister, who was her
chief companion in infancy, was lying on a sick bed, to which she has
been the innocent means of bringing her?"

Dorsain sighed deeply when his eye rested on Lisette, then dancing under
the trees, and laughing and conversing with her partner with all the
selfish frivolity of her nature; but just at that moment her father
approached her and whispered something in her ear, and even at that
distance her uncle could see by the light of the lamps near which she
stood, the expression of her countenance change to angry discontent.  Her
mirth ceased however, evincing itself so openly, and on the first
opportunity she withdrew with her partner from the observation of her
father.

The mother repeated D'Elsac's sigh, and then left him, to show herself to
the dancers.  Scarcely had she gone, before her brother, now at liberty
to leave, set off to the cottage to inquire after Caliste.  The village
street was deserted, as it had been on the day D'Elsac first arrived
there; and, unnoticed by one individual, he reached his sister's cottage.
The door was half opened to let in the air, for it was a warm evening;
and, by the light of a lamp, he could perceive that Caliste was extended
upon the bed, which I have before mentioned as one of the chief articles
of furniture in the kitchen.  Close beside her couch sat Victorine, still
wearing the white dress put on for the fete; and at her feet was Mimi,
whose head rested on her lap, and who was evidently in the sweet sleep of
childhood.

For a moment, or more, all was silent; and D'Elsac had leisure to remark
the softly serene countenance of Victorine, whose sweetly expressive face
was sometimes turned towards Mimi and then towards Caliste.  It was
evident that Caliste slept not; for D'Elsac heard her moan, and he could
remark that, when the sound reached him, Victorine looked grieved, though
she spoke not, fearing to rouse the invalid.  Suddenly, however, Caliste
addressed her, and though her uncle could not hear her words, yet her
manner was energetic, and like one still suffering from excitement.

Victorine tried to sooth her, bending over her, and arranging her
pillows; during which movement Mimi awoke, and inquired of Caliste "if
she felt herself better."

"Yes, my little Mimi, I am better," she said, "that is, my head does not
pain me as it did; yet, for all that, I am perhaps more miserable than
ever.  Oh! what shall I do, Victorine, what will become of me?  At this
moment I would gladly change place with the lowliest and most abject of
God's creatures."

"Dear Caliste," replied the astonished child, "how can you say so; you,
who are so beautiful, why even Lisette, the Rosiere, was jealous of your
beauty more than once this very day."

"Ah, it is that!" exclaimed Caliste, sitting up in her bed, and clasping
her hands together, "it is that very jealousy, Mimi, which I fear will
ruin my soul and my body.  Oh, Mimi, guard against jealousy, strive
against envy as you would against a desire to murder your own mother."

The child seemed frightened by her sister's agitation, and clung closer
to Victorine; whilst Caliste continued--"Oh, if you knew the bitter
passions raging in my breast this day, if you knew how first I despised,
then hated, Lisette; how I should have rejoiced had her beauty been torn
from her, and how I should have triumphed in her agony!  Oh, wretched,
wretched girl that I am, and she too, she spurred me on, she gloried in
my misery, she gloried in my downfall; and, for revenge, I would have
been glad to have seen her dead at my feet.  Do not come near me,
Victorine," she added, "do not pity me, I do not deserve compassion.  I
hate and loath myself; would I could show to Lisette my repentance, but
what will that avail me?--The sin is unwashed from my heart, my
conscience drives me to distraction, and there is no peace left for the
miserable, undone, Caliste."

"But nobody need know your thoughts, but Victorine and myself," urged
Mimi; "and we will not tell of you, sister."

"But God knows them," she replied in a hollow voice, that made D'Elsac
start back from the door.  "He knows them and I know them, and surely I
shall be punished for them severely."

She ceased; and, hiding her face with her hands, she gave way to violent
emotion.  Victorine allowed the first burst to pass away; and then,
putting her arm round her, she gently soothed her by kind words,
entreating her to listen to her.  "Dearest Caliste," she said, "when I
told you the Rosiere's crown would bring sorrow to our home, you did not
believe me.  Now that you have painfully learnt this lesson, my sister,
surely now you will believe me, when I say I can point out to you a path
to peace.  Vile as our hearts are by nature, dear Caliste, yet did our
Lord God _bless_ the sons of Noah, even though he had just declared that
the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth.  You have done
wrong, Caliste, you have sinned grievously; you have been in darkness and
in error, and you now feel shame and remorse.  My sister, that shame is
not of the natural man, it is a gift from God, and He has said, 'When the
poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth
for thirst, I, the Lord, will hear them; I, the God of Israel, will not
forsake them.  And the work of righteousness shall be peace, and the
effect of righteousness, quietness and assurance for ever.  And my people
shall dwell in a peaceful habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet
resting places.'"

"Ah, Victorine," she replied, "wherefore is it that you alone can sooth
me? wherefore is it, that in listening to you, I hope some day to be at
rest?"

"Because," answered Victorine, "the faith in which I have been reared is
one of love, of joy, of peace, of hope.  I have been told that the God
who has made me, being infinite, must also be perfect in holiness and
power.  He has promised perfect peace to those whose minds are staid on
him.  On his word do I rely with full confidence, as the child does upon
a parent's.  And as I have learnt, so would I teach you, dear Caliste,
that our God is love, and those that turn to Him he will in no wise cast
off."

"Would that I could think as you do!" exclaimed the poor girl; "would
that I were a heretic like you, Victorine, and that I might but be
permitted to read in that book you have studied from childhood!"

D'Elsac was now aware that the fete had broken up, and the villagers were
returning to their homes; and, unwilling to be found where he was, he
left the spot; and, taking a turn, he presently came back to the cottage.
He found all the family assembled in the kitchen, when he returned; and
he came in just in time to hear Valmont rebuke Lisette severely for her
conduct during the day.

She replied with passion and insolence to his displeasure; and the father
irritated, again reproved her, commanding her to be silent, and to go up
to her chamber.  She obeyed him so far as to leave the apartment, taking
no heed of Caliste, but muttering out her discontent at the behaviour of
her relatives towards her, and she even proceeded to some kind of threat
which, for the time, was unnoticed.

Valmont next spoke with some bitterness to Caliste, and then left the
apartment in displeasure.

With some difficulty, D'Elsac supported, or rather carried, Caliste to
the chamber above; for her father's words had so grieved her that she was
immediately taken worse; and then, leaving her to her mother and
Victorine, he left the cottage, unable to sleep, thinking that a walk in
the quiet moonlight would do him good.

When he returned he found the door of the house still open and Mimi
asleep upon the bed.  He watched by his little niece for a considerable
time till Victorine appeared, and said, "it was her intention to sit up
all night with Caliste," and then recommended him to go to bed.  "I
cannot sleep," he said, "I shall sit by the fire to-night, and then I
shall be at hand if you want anything for poor Caliste."  Victorine
thanked him for his kindness, and seeing that Mimi still slept on, she
would not rouse her, but went up again to her sister's chamber.

It was a long and weary night to many in that cottage; and when morning
dawned, Victorine was aware that her sister was much worse than she had
even feared.  A medical man was sent for, who pronounced it a fever; and
in a short time the poor girl was completely unconscious of all passing
round her.  In the excitement that ensued, no one thought of Lisette, and
the evening had nearly set in before Mimi suddenly declared that she had
not made her appearance that day.  It was in vain Valmont and D'Elsac
inquired of the neighbours if they had seen her--they received the same
answer from all; and Mimi soon discovered that she had taken some clothes
away with her.  And now, indeed, were the family of Durocher to be
pitied;--the eldest daughter in a state of delirium, and the third having
disappeared in such a manner that no traces of her could be found.  It is
true they knew Lisette could not be in distress; for, amongst the gifts
made to her the day before, she had received the yearly income of the
Rosiere, which is one hundred and twenty livres; a sum of no little
importance to people living in the humble mode her parents did.

It was impossible, however, long to keep the affair a secret from
Margoton and Victorine: and the heart-broken father--for he really loved
his children--was forced to leave, what he imagined to be, the dying bed
of his unhappy Caliste, to seek after that unnatural sister who had
helped to bring her to that state.

What a household of sorrow was the kind D'Elsac left to superintend! and,
had it not been for Victorine, the poor man would have added another to
the causes of grief in that cottage.  Now it was that Victorine's
character shone forth; she was the nurse of her sister, the consoler of
her mother and her uncle, and the gentle guide and director to the young
Mimi.

Tenderly did she watch over all, bringing peace to their minds from that
source from which peace alone can spring.  Even in that time of trial was
the sweet conviction brought to the mind of this young girl, that it was
Divine Love that chastened them; and even then was she enabled to
perceive that our light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work for
us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.

Perhaps Margoton suffered more from the bad conduct of Lisette than from
the really dangerous state of Caliste; for Lisette had been a source of
greater pride to her, and now bitter was the change of pride to shame in
her bosom.  To Lisette she had made her sisters give way; she had herself
submitted to many a whim which she would not have done from Caliste or
Victorine, and how had she returned that indulgence, but by cruelty and
ingratitude!

This time of mourning was through the goodness of God blest to Margoton
and her brother, and as Caliste began to get better, they would entreat
Victorine to talk to them of what she had learnt in Geneva, and relate
all she knew of her Aunt Pauline's motives for changing her faith.
Victorine loved the subject, and taught them what she could with joy and
gladness.

Caliste was at length declared out of danger, and immediately afterwards
Valmont returned with the news that Lisette had married a young man with
whom she had danced at the fete.  Her answer was to be given that very
evening; for she had promised to meet him again when the rest of the
family were in bed.  Irritated by her father's displeasure, and urged by
her companion, she left her home, whilst her mother and Victorine were
with Caliste, and whilst D'Elsac was gone out for a walk to calm his
mind.

Lisette had married a youth without principle; and already did he show
that her life with him would be far from a happy one.  Her money, little
as it was, was an object to the young man; and he at once obtained
possession of it, taking her with him to Paris, where they were married,
and where the husband, irritated at her earnest entreaties to return to
Salency, began, as I have before remarked, to show already his brutal
nature.  "It is of no use," he would say to her, "you have lost your
character in Salency; if there was the slightest chance of your getting
anything by going there, you should go tomorrow; as it is, if you go back
there, you may remain.  I shall not take the trouble of sending for you
again to Paris."

The proud heart of Lisette was not yet humbled; for her beauty gained her
much notice in Paris, and she had not attempted to make any apology to
her father, or to beg his forgiveness, though it was known to her he had
followed her to the capital.

Such was the painful account Valmont brought of the fate of the most
beautiful maiden in all Salency; and the broken-hearted parents felt that
they had none to blame but themselves for her conduct.  Valmont's heart
was softened, and he shed many tears when he again beheld Caliste; whilst
the afflicted family mourned together for the rash and misjudging
Lisette; though they all agreed that, as she did not desire pardon, it
was better for the present to leave her to herself.

On Valmont's return, D'Elsac prepared to leave Salency, for he had been
absent much longer than he had intended; but, before he went, he took an
opportunity of telling Margoton and her husband the real motive of his
journey, though he added he could not suppose they could now consent to
part with another child.

Margoton and Valmont had for some time felt how painful it was to meet
their neighbours, those very neighbours who had assisted in the triumph
of Lisette; and, as Caliste's conduct was not free from suspicion, they
replied to D'Elsac in a way he little expected, by proposing that they
should sell their little property in Salency, and all go to live near
Grenoble, where he might take first one and then the other of their
children, without choosing one in preference to her sisters.  This plan
particularly suited his wishes; and as to Victorine, her happiness was
almost unbounded at returning so near her dear Switzerland, particularly
as her mother confessed to her before their departure, that it was in the
earnest desire of seeking after that heavenly peace which had been the
means of preserving Victorine through the trials that had nearly
destroyed her sister's earthly and eternal happiness.

It was on the 8th of August, just two months after the fete of the Rose,
that Margoton Durocher, her husband, and her three daughters, first
attended the Protestant chapel at Geneva.  D'Elsac too was there, and the
merry hearted Mimi.

Thus was the peace of mind of Victorine blessed to many, and had she too
striven for the earthly roses, she would have added another pang to the
heart of her parents, and deprived herself, for a momentarily or hourly
gratification, of much lasting happiness.

G. Woodfall and Son, Printers, Angel Court, Skinner Street, London.



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