to his drawings, that he was never tired of copying it; and sooth to say, Annette, with all her simplicity, had enough of woman's vanity in her heart, to be pleased, if not proud of the artist's evident admiration of her.

At this time, too, the young painter, who sometimes amused himself in the composition of simple songs, addressed the following one to Annette, and this piece of rustic gallantry excited the jealousy of her lover into still greater violence.

"Beautiful maiden, as pure as the snow

On thine own native mountains, wherever I go,
I'll think of thee artless and fair as thou art,-
Though soon, ah! too soon, I from thee must depart.
"I'll think of thee beaming as now with a smile,
And thy innocent converse that oft did beguile
The long hours of evening, and of thy sweet song
That the wild mountain-echoes so love to prolong.

"Beautiful maiden, oh! blest be thy lot

With the youth who has won thee, though I be forgot.
My prayer shall ascend to the Heavens for thee,
When distant thy sweet face no more I can see.'

One evening when Michel returned to the chalet, he found the stranger platting the long tresses of Annette, who was innocently laughing at the awkwardness with which he performed the operation. Michel had, from her infancy, always reserved this task as a labour of love for himself; and his feelings could not have been more wounded had he discovered her in the arms of the stranger.

"How, faithless girl!" exclaimed he, "and is it come to this? Is all shame gone, that you let a stranger touch those tresses that my hands alone have heretofore pressed? And you, ungrateful man! is it thus you repay me for having saved your life? But I will fly from you both for ever!" And so saying, he rushed from the chalet with the frantic haste of a maniac.

The stranger, alarmed by his violence and impetuosity, the cause of which he for the first time clearly discerned, and deeply pained that he should have furnished the occasion for the development of a passion which now raged with such fury, fled in pursuit of Michel, leaving Annette overwhelmed with surprise and grief. Dreadful were the sufferings of the poor girl, as hour after hour elapsed, bringing with them no tidings of her lover or his pursuer. At early dawn, after a night of such wretchedness as she had ever previously been a stranger to, she stood in front of the chalet, straining her eyes in the hope of discerning her lover; when her young sister descried a figure in the distance, and pointed it out to her. The most fearful

apprehensions filled her breast, for there was but one figure to be seen, and that with the quick sight of love she discerned was not his.

Alas! the fears of Annette were but too well founded. Durand, the young artist, only returned to prepare for the recepof the corse of the ill-fated Michel, which, after a long search, was discovered, owing to the barking of his dog, in the very spot whence, but a few days before, he had rescued him who was the innocent cause of the groundless jealousy that led to his own destruction. Whether the unhappy youth had wilfully precipitated himself into the yawning gulf, or that in the rapidity of his flight he had overlooked his vicinity to it, and so had accidentally fallen in, was never ascertained. The chariritable-minded of the few persons collected from the neighbouring hamlets, were disposed to adopt the latter supposition, while those less good-natured, declared their conviction that the deceased, driven to madness by jealousy, had thrown himself into the chasm, where his mutilated remains were found-a belief in which they were strengthened by the frantic selfaccusations of the wretched Annette, who, with piercing cries, declared herself to be the cause of all. Fearful was the picture presented at the two chalets, so lately the scene of peace and content. The poor old mother of Michel Bauvais, rendered nearly insane by this last terrible affliction, sat by the corse of her son, and, gazing fondly on the pale face, murmured from time to time. "Yes, there he lies, as his father did before him, twenty years ago. Gone from me, without a parting word-a single embrace. These cold lips, that never uttered a word of unkindness to me, cannot return the kiss that I imprint on them. Ah, my son! never before did they receive the touch of mine without returning the pressure. How often in my dreams have I seen you as you now lie, cold, speechless, without life, and I have awoke in agony, to bless God that it was but a dream! But now! oh! my son, my son, who will close the weary eyes of your wretched mother, who will lay her in the grave! The wicked spirits of these dreary mountains first envied me the possession of my poor Claude, and snatched him from me, and now they have torn away my son. Often have I seen a light too bright for mortal ken, shine into his room, when he slept, as if the moon itself had entered his casement, and cast all its beams around his head, just as it used to do around that of his poor father. I ought to have known it boded no good, but I dared not think that my child would be taken from me. I have heard such sighs and whispers, too, in the night, when the wind has shook the chalet, and the snow has been drifted against the windows with a violence that has dashed them to

pieces. Ah! I ought to have known that even then the evil spirits that haunt these wild mountains were planning his destruction!"

So raved the poor woman, in all the incoherence of a grief that unsettled her reason, until some of the inhabitants of the nearest hamlet came to remove the corse for interment, when, uttering a piercing shriek, and clasping it in her arms, she fell senseless on the coffin; and when raised, was found to be dead. Annette had lost all consciousness of the misery around her, in a brain fever, which kept her hovering between life and death during many days. When health once more began to tinge her pale cheek, it was discovered with sorrow by Durand, who had watched over her with unceasing solicitude and unwearying care, that reason reassumed not its empire in her brain. Perfectly harmless and gentle, she did all that she was told to do, with the docility of the most obedient child, but was utterly incapable of the least reflection, or of self-government. Durand, considering that he was the cause, though the innocent one, of the afflictions that had befallen these poor families, insisted on becoming their support for the future. He prevailed on the helpless old Martin Vignolles to accompany him, with his two daughters, to Paris, where, having established them in his home, he left nothing undone to promote their comfort. Fortune, too, favoured the worthy young man who so religiously fulfilled his self-imposed duties; for his pictures, justly admired, produced such high prices, that after a few years, he secured a handsome competence, and became the happy husband of the pretty Fanchon, the sister of poor Annette, to whom he had given an education that rendered her in every way suitable to be the companion of a person with a cultivated mind. Old Martin Vignolles lived to see the marriage of his Fanchon, and died blessing his children.

Poor Annette still survives, innocent, gentle, and fondly beloved by her sister and Durand, with whose little children she delights to play, offering subjects for his pencil, the representation of which often draw crowds of admirers round them in the gallery of the Louvre.

A FRAGMENT.

"No weapon can such deadly wounds impart,

As conscience, roused, inflicts upon the heart."

"POSTILION," cried a feeble but sweet voice," turn to your right when you have ascended the hill, and stop, as I intend to walk up the lane."

The postilion obeyed the command, and with more gentleness than is often to be met with in his station, opened the chaisedoor, and, having first given his hand to her female attendant to alight, assisted a pale and languid, but still eminently beautiful woman, whose trembling limbs seemed scarcely equal to the task of supporting her attenuated frame.

"Be so good as to remain here till I return," said the lady, who, leaning on the arm of her attendant, proceeded through the leafy lane, the branches of whose verdant boundaries were animated by a thousand warbling birds sending forth notes of joy. But ill did those gay sounds accord with the feelings of her who traced this rural walk, every turn of which recalled bitter remembrances.

On reaching the gate that opened into the pleasure grounds of Clairville, the stranger was obliged to pause and take breath, in order to gain some degree of composure before she could enter it. There are some objects and incidents, which, though comparatively trifling, have a powerful effect on the feelings; and this the unknown experienced when, pressing the secret spring of the gate, which readily yielded to her touch, with a hurried but tottering pace she entered the grounds. Here, feeling the presence of her attendant a restraint-who, though an Italian utterly ignorant of English, as also of the early history of her mistress, was yet observant of her visible emotion, and affectionately anxious to soothe it-she desired her to remain at the gate until her return. In vain Francesca urged that the languid frame of her dear lady was unequal to support the exertion of walking, without the assistance of her arm; for with a firm, but kind manner, her mistress declared her intention of proceeding alone.

It was ten years since the feet of the wanderer had pressed the velvet turf over which they now slowly bent their course. She was then glowing with youth and health; happy, and dispensing happiness around; but, alas! Love spread his bandage over her eyes, blinded her to the fatal realities of the abyss into which

he was about to plunge her, and in honied accents, whispered in her infatuated ear a thousand bland promises of bliss to come. How were those promises performed? and what was she now? She returned to this once cherished spot, with a mind torn by remorse, and a form bowed down by disease. She returned with the internal conviction, that Death had laid his icy grasp on her heart, and a few days, at most, if not a few hours, must terminate her existence. But this conviction, far from giving her pain, was regarded by her as a source of consolation; and this last earthly indulgence-that of viewing the abode of her children-she did not feel herself worthy of enjoying, until conscious that her hours were numbered.

She proceeded through the beautiful grounds, every mazy path and graceful bend of which was familiar to her, as if seen the day before. Many of the improvements suggested by her taste, and still preserved with care, brought back heart-sickening recollections of love and confidence, repaid with deception and ingratitude; and though supported by the consolations of religion, which led her humbly to hope that her remorse and penitence had been accepted by Him who has promised mercy to the repentant sinner; yet her heart shrunk within her, as memory presented her with the review of her transgression, and she almost feared to hope for pardon,

When she had reached a point of the grounds that commanded a prospect of the house, how were her feelings excited by a view of that well known, well remembered, scene! Every thing wore the same appearance as whent hat mansion owned her for its mistress; the house had still the same aspect of substantial grandeur and repose, the level lawn the same velvet texture, and the trees, shrubs, and flowers, the same blooming freshness, as when she daily beheld their beauties. She, she alone was changed. Time was, that those doors would have been opened wide to receive her, and that her presence would have dispensed joy and pleasure to every individual beneath that roof; while now her very name would excite only painful emotions, and its sound must be there heard no more. Another bore the title she once was proud to bear, supplying the place she had abandoned, and worthily discharging the duties she had left unperformed.

She gazed on the windows of the apartment in which she first became a mother, and all the tide of tenderness that then burst on her heart now came back to her, poisoned with the bitter consciousness of how she had fulfilled a mother's part. Those children dearer to her than the life-drops that throbbed in her veins, were now beneath that roof, receiving from another that affection and instruction that it should have been her