than that of roses, to rest upon her glowing fingers, she can exhaust much of her warm affections on those bright children of the soil; and the inborn love of creating, of nursing, and of rearing, with which all women are blessed (or cursed) can (when other passions have not already destroyed the taste for simple and innocent excitements) find happy exercise in the manual culture of a garden.

The

The exiles had a few acquaintances, and one friend in their adopted country. former were quiet, simple people, 'keepers at home,' and living in patriarchal fashion.

6

There was a hearty kindliness about them that charmed Alice, and a true hospitality that was far above and beyond the conventional Glad to see you's' of more artificial society. Their hours were early, and their fare was frugal; but it was a pleasant thing to hear their truthful welcome; and it mattered little that the bouilli beef was tasteless and stringy, and the pears and plums (which were the staples of the meal) but half

ripened by the sun; for warm hearts beat beneath their homely garments, and the dinner of herbs was seasoned with words of hearty kindness.

The acquaintances lived not far away, and often a stout old Carlist count or baron, shod in mud-defying sabots, would find his way to Kelhouet, on some mission of good-will to its gentle inmates; but the one friend's home was situated at a greater distance, and it was only by means of a carriage, that the château she inhabited could be reached.

Through the curious country where the ancient Druids worshipped lay the road that led to the château of the Marquise de Pontarlec. There were 'Dolmens,' giant masses of stone, more vast and numerous than those of our own Stonehenge, in the neighbourhood of that quaint old castle, and around it was a moat in which timehonoured carp rolled lazily, and all undisturbed by the destroying hand of man.

The old Marquise was very fond of Marie, who she called her Mignonne; and was always rejoiced when the girl, then a fresh, delicate maiden of some fifteen summers, was permitted to spend a few days with her, in the silent château among the Dolmens.'

Marie was absent on one of those visits, when the intelligence of her father's death reached Kelhouet, and Alice, ever ready to undertake the painful tasks of life, proceeded at once to Auray (the town near which the château stood) and sent for the orphan girl.

It was a grievous thing to blight the early joy-blossoms in that happy nature; grievous to watch the poor child's quivering lip, while she learned that the father of whom her memory was so vivid, would never see his little girl again.

'Let me go home,' she sobbed, as soon as she found words to speak, ‘dear sister Alice' (for so she always called her aunt); let me go to Kelhouet; take me to poor mamma.'

But to this proposal Alice would not agree. No, Marie,' she said; 'no, poor

child, you must stay here awhile, your mother is ill and nervous, and it may be that her presence will be wanted elsewhere. Madame de Pontarlec is so kind and good, that you will not want for sympathy; and just now, believe me, that the seeing you will but add to your poor mother's

sorrow.'

Gentle and easily led, Marie soon resigned herself to the temporary absence that was required of her; and Alice returned to watch over her almost distracted sister, whose revelations of the past in the first hours of her distress, she felt might be such as should meet her ears alone.

On the first Sunday after their affliction Alice Ellerton went alone to offer up her prayers to God. In her own heart's language she poured forth her supplications, kneeling on the paved floor of the old church, with the benign image of the

mother of our Lady, the gracious St. Anne of Auray, looking down upon her devotions.

The air was filled with incense, and the sacred edifice was crowded with kneeling figures. The solemn music of the Mass service swelled forth in a rich volume of religious sound, and deep reverence and silence reigned throughout the lofty temple, during the intervals of prayer and praise. The creed was not her creed, nor was the tongue her tongue; but this the English girl heeded not, as she bowed her head beneath those soul-inspiring sounds.

When the service was over she prepared to leave the church, but the crowd was great, and she therefore delayed her departure till some of the congregation should have gone out before her. As she waited in the aisle, there passed in their outward course many a holiday-dressed peasant girl in tall white cap and crimson petticoat; while not a few of the other sex, with flowing locks,