through the little screened wicket. Looking cautiously round, he approached with rapid steps the door leading to her suit of apartments.

"It is he! it is he !" she exclaimed, and with quick movement she agitated a little silver bell. A maid of honor entered"Beatrice," said she, hastily and excited, "I expect the visit of a gentleman with whom I must converse on important business. He will be here immediately; while he remains with me I am at home to no one; understand, Beatrice, to no one." Soon the stranger entered. "Frederick!" exclaimed the lady joyfully, holding out her hand to the friend of her youth.

"Madame," answered Monsieur de Malpre, while he approached a little near

er.

An embarrassed silence now commenced on both sides, exactly like on that former occasion many years past. This time the lady broke the silence, "Your first word, Frederick, after a separation of twenty years, was a reproach," she said, with a faltering voice, supporting herself by the back of a chair, does Frances exist for you no longer? Have you preserved no reminiscences in your heart which"-at these words she cast her eyes blushingly down-" which intercede for forgiveness for the friend of your youth ?"

"Frances," he said, "Frances, twenty years beneath the scorching sun of India were, indeed, enough to dry up my countenance; but my heart remained ever fresh and young as of old! Pardon, Frances, this stormy restless heart-that cold word shall be its first and last reproach; from this moment, no Marquise de Maintenon exists for me, but only a Frances de Aubigné, does this satisfy, Frances?"

"I thank you, Frederick; you are a noble, rare being!" said Madame de Maintenon, giving him her hand, which he pressed to his lips; "many changes have taken place since we last met, Frederick!" she continued, motioning him to be seated near her, and regarding him attentively, as if making a comparison between then and now.

Malpre guessed her thoughts.

"You are looking for the features of that Frederick whom you once knew in

the days of his youth, Frances, but you seek in vain; the burning sun of India, and these scars which I gained in the service of the king against the wild mountain tribes of Affghanistan, and the warriors of Holland, have entirely effaced those features once familiar, and my heart alone remains unchanged!"

"Still, as ever, an enthusiast," she re marked, with a melancholy smile, pressing the hand of her early friend; then she continued, in a lower tone, "but now, about that which concerns you so closely; you write me in the letter, in which you ask for an interview, that you have been slandered to the king, in relation to your conduct while in India; you are said to have neglected the service of the king, and, I should scorn to repeat the expres sion, if you had not already written it to me, and to have been accused of considerable peculations, which have induced him, without listening to your defence, to banish you forever from the court and Paris? Have you no suspicion about this, Frederick?"

Certainly, I do suspect," he replied; "it is a rival, who has vainly endeavored to dispossess me of my position in India; one of those men who, when they are sent as governors, or commissaries, into the colonies, plunder and impoverish them in every possible way, exactly in the same manner as the Roman proconsuls and prætors used to do; my slanderer is a relation of the Marquise de Montespan."

An exclamation of surprise from Madame de Maintenon interrupted him; he looked inquiringly at her.

"What is the matter, Frances? what ails you ?"

66

Nothing, nothing!" she answered quickly; "continue your story, Frederick;" to herself, she added, "extraordinary, his enemies are also mine!"

It will be remembered that Madame de Maintenon had been the cause of depriving Madame de Montespan again of the favor of Louis XIV., through Mademoiselle de Fontages, which made Madame de Montespan her bitterest enemy.

"What causes me most grief is," De Malpre continued, "not the banishment from Court, for you know, Frances, I never was a courtier, but my spotted honor-the blot on the name of a man whose whole life has never been dishonored by a single wrong act-the shame which will attach to the escutcheon of De Malpre;

and assist down a much more aged and very decrepit man, whose tottering feet had scarcely power remaining to bear the burden of his body. A large flowing wig shrouded a shriveled face, furrowed by many a scar, and the trembling hands, enclosed in ample lace cuffs, had hardly strength to hold the gold-headed cane with which, and the assistance of the old servant, he endeavored to help himself forward; the dark eyes, which shone from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, alone betrayed the fact that this withered frame was still occupied by a not entirely broken spirit.

"Pull the bell, Etienne," he said, impatiently, but with tremulous accents, when he saw that the door of the asylum was not yet opened.

The old servant obeyed, and the bell resounded through the building. The gate was soon opened by the portress, who, on perceiving the visitor, displayed the most pleased surprise. She said gently to him:

"At last! she has expected you ever since morning."

The aged man made no reply, but, leaning on his servant, followed the portress, who, ascending one flight of stairs, opened carefully the door of a cell, in which he distinguished a bed on either side; torches were burning, and at the head the priest was kneeling, engaged in prayer. He entered sorrowfully this little, bare cell, where, excepting a bed, there was only a chair, a praying-desk, and a crucifix, and sitting down beside the bed he folded his hands and uttered a silent prayer; then he looked upward and contemplated with painful emotion the coun

tenance of the dying lady, by whose couch stood neither children, relations, nor friends, her only comforter being a single priest, who now rose, and turning towards the aged mourner, said gently:

"It was the last wish of the dying, Monsieur de Malpre, to behold you once more; and, therefore, did I write and entreat you to come."

He only nodded with his head, and murmured "heartfelt thanks."

The priest then bowed and left the apartment.

De Malpre bent down upon the bed, and touched the pale, emaciated hand with his lips. One tear fell from his eyes, which most likely had not shed another for more than half a century. This warm tear falling on her hand, awoke the aged sufferer; she opened her half closed eyes, and when she perceived who it was, a faint smile of pleasure, transient as the forked lightning illumining the dark clouds, passed across her features; motioning him to draw nearer, with painful effort, and almost dying breath, she whispered:

"I could not die in peace, Frederick, without seeing you once more. Pray for me.”

The aged De Malpre complied, and in the midst of the holy stillness which prevailed, the spirit of Madame de Maintenon passed away.

Monsieur de Malpre called for help; the priest and servant entered, and with gentle force raised the poor old man and led him away, when he had taken a last look at the face of dead, and murmured a last farewell.

A few weeks after this event, Monsieur de Malpre was carried to his last home,

and dark eyes. Those eyes did not flinch | or seek to veil themselves from the radiance; rather they seemed to dilate, as if endeavoring to receive all the glory. Against Hildred, a slighter figure leant; a fair head lay upon her shoulder, somewhat hidden by the black tresses that, though looped up behind, fell loosely and low down upon each side of a stately throat. It was some time since either had spoken, when Hildred said:

"So you think he loves you, Millie ?" A smile that had a dash of disdain in it, grew wholly tender as she glanced down upon the delicate face, and saw how the drooping eyelids drooped yet more, and the faint color flushed rosier as she spoke. She threw herself into a great chair that stood near. Millie slipped down on to a cushion at her feet, having given no answer. Hildred repeated her question, passing her hand caressingly over the beautifully-shaped oval head resting against her, as she did so. No word yet; but bending forward, she caught the last flicker of a smile dying from off the rosy mouth, and took that for a sufficient reply.

"Ah! child!" she said, "no need for further answer. God bless you!" Then she added, "I am very glad!" Millie's soft little hand stole up into Hildred's. She did not cry out, though her sister's fervent clasp pained her.

"I should not have liked to speak of this yet," the elder went on, glancing at the mourning they both wore; "but it is needful I should know. I have to plan for the future. We stand alone nowyou have only me to take care of you at present."

"But Hildred," Millie said, "we need not do any thing different, need we? We may live together now? You will stay with me always, wont you ?"

"That is impossible, Millie," was said very decidedly.

"Why impossible?" Millie asked, earnestly. Indeed, I can not do without you."

"You shall soon learn to do without me, child. Never fear! I shall not leave you till there is a dearer some one else to care for you. You are one of those who ought always to have strong arms round you, Millie."

"But why leave me? You say you love me very much. If you think I could be happy knowing you left alone, it is not

kind of you to judge me so. You ought not to be proud to me, Hildred, although I am rich!"

"Bravely said, Millie mine; but listen. You think this pretty place yours-left you by your uncle-"

"Our uncle. You are my sister, and must share his gift. If-if-I should ever go to live anywhere else, it might be all yours, if you wont come with me."

"I say your uncle, Millie. He did not hold me as his niece; he had heard how like I am to my father!"

"If he had only known you, sister, he would have loved you in spite-" "Would I be loved in spite of what I glory in ?" Hildred said, vehemently. "No, child. We must not stop to quarrel, for I have something to tell you: Millie, you are not rich. You know uncle died suddenly; he was always irresolute, procrastinating, weak a good man, though, for loving you so well as he did. He had made no will when he died, and an heir-at-law has turned up."

"Millie raised her head, and looked up at Hildred inquiringly. Hildred went on: "I should have enjoyed the excitement of disputing his claim; but it would be no use. I should not like to be beaten; so you must give up to him quietly."

"Then the dear old place is not mine? I can not give it to you?" Millie said, in pained surprise.

"I should not, could not have taken it, dear one. I must and will be independent. No, child, nothing—at least, almost nothing is yours. You are mine, and I am glad―"

"Of what, Hildred ?"

"That we are free of all obligations. It is glorious to be free-free!"

Hildred repeated the word, glancing out with a fierce look in her eyes that told of her having known some kind of slavery.

"I was getting sick of life," she went on; "it was not life, it was only a living death I had with my aunt-great-aunt as she was, but would not be called greataunt. Every day I grew more wicked, Millie. I liked better to be feared-hated

than loved by them. "Now I am free, I will live a glorious, battling life! Much as I love you, I should have been miserable again, if, to take care of you, I had had to share your fortune and life in respectable idleness."

"But, Hildred, if we are poor, what shall we do? You will have to go back