Very true,' replied Beatrice carelessly, thinking that the porter's wife referred only to some hypothetical case.

'I was thinking,' she said, ‘of that poor gentleman in the next room to yours; he was here just now.'

'Poor fellow!' said Beatrice; 'he looks such a boy, with his fair hair and light moustache.'

'He has seen more of trouble than many an old man, I am sure,' replied Madame Benoit, shaking her head.

I fancied so,' interrupted Beatrice eagerly; for she had had the curiosity to peep through the keyhole now and then into her neighbour's room. "I thought once or twice I heard him groan in the

night.'

Very likely,' said the porter's wife. 'To-night, he looked so pale and worn that my heart ached for him. I know he suffers in silence, and dreads lest any one should find it out. If it wasn't for that stupid title, I believe he would find some friend to help him till better days come.'

'Do you think he is really very poor?' inquired Beatrice.

'I am sure of it. He has not a sou. Only the other day,' she continued, shutting the door, and speaking in a lower tone, he had not a single fagot in his closet. He must have been aware of it, for he would have been sure to complain of my not laying his fire this cold weather; and he never said a word about it, though I hinted to him that there was something wanting.'

That is a bad sign,' said Beatrice.

'The thought of it quite tormented me,' said the porter's wife. 'I could not bear to think of his coming home weary, and perhaps hungry, to a cold and cheerless room. I bought him to-day a little charcoal. For three sous, he might burn a little fire every evening; but I dare not hint it to him. I would be glad to help him, if he was not so proud.'

'Ah! it is a sad affair,' said Beatrice, on the threshold; but what can one do?' Beatrice unfurled her umbrella, and put on her clogs again to cross the yard, with all the deliberation and precision of a confirmed old maid.

Good-night, Madame Benoit,' said she.

'Good-night, child,' replied the old woman affectionately.

Beatrice mounted the stairs to her room, and felt at her side for the key of her door, which she usually carried hanging to her waistband with her scissors and other implements. She knew where to put her hand upon it in a moment; the door flew open, and she entered.

The air felt damp, and she lighted her fire, and set her clogs at a moderate distance to dry. Her room was comfortably furnished, and everything was in its place. She had a miniature sleeping-room at the back, which was also remarkable for cleanliness and order. Little bags hung around the walls there, with nails and pegs for

clothes, brushes, hand-brooms, &c.; and she had trunks and drawers in which innumerable articles were stored, any one of which she could go in and find in a moment in the dark.

She had brought in her pocket some slips of newspaper, containing stories, which she meant to read before she went to bed, but she had a little work to finish first; so she got out her housewifes, and wheeling her padded arm-chair up to the fire, set her candle beside her on the table. 'An arm-chair is comfortable,' said Beatrice, sinking into it with an exclamation of fatigue.

She sat working very quietly, till the logs upon her fire were burned through, and glowing under a white ash. She was thinking of her neighbour in the adjoining room; she distinguished his footstep walking about. If that door would open,' thought she, 'I would go in and put a few things there for him in his absence. He would never suspect who had done it. Perhaps in his troubles he would never think about it, or fancy they came out of the clouds, in answer to his prayers.' Shading the candle with her hand, to throw a shadow on the door, she could see a faint light gleaming through his keyhole. She knew by this that he had not gone to bed yet; but the room had become very quiet. 'I wonder what he is doing,' thought she; 'writing, I daresay-putting down all his misfortunes in a diary, or writing a letter to some friends, if he has any. I would like to know.' She rose and walked over to the door, to peep through the keyhole. 'He would consider me curious indeed, if he saw me, thought she, as she stooped to bring her eye nearer. the place was quite dark-so dark, that she fancied that something had got into the keyhole. She took her candle from her table, and looked in by the light; to her surprise, she saw that something had been thrust into the aperture. Beatrice blushed, and hurried back to her chair; she suspected that he knew of her having watched him before. 'I saw the light there a moment ago,' thought she. 'He must have heard me, and determined to balk my curiosity.'

But

The thought of being detected in such an unfeminine proceeding, which she would never have ventured on but from the conviction that no one could possibly know it but herself, agitated Beatrice so much that she could not go on with her work. She blamed herself severely for her imprudence; she thought that she would never be able to meet the count upon the stairs again, without betraying by her manner that she knew of his discovery, and the means he had taken to protect himself from prying eyes. Suddenly, as she was looking into the gloomy embers of her fire, and musing on these things, she was struck with a faint, sickly smell of burning wood in the room. She fancied at first that the wind was blowing down her chimney, and beating back the fumes of her fire. She went to her windows, and drawing back the curtains, opened both of them to let in the fresh air, and make a current towards the chimney. The wind blew in freshly, carrying her curtains up to the ceiling and

dropping them again, and scattering her newspaper leaves about the floor; but the odour increased; and now Beatrice discovered that it was strongest in the direction of the door of the count's apartment. Instantly she recollected that Madame Benoit had placed some charcoal in his room. This, and what she had heard of his misery, explained to her in a moment the true meaning of his closing an aperture that might admit the air. Beatrice did not hesitate; she flew at the door, and rapped violently on the panel— the room was quite silent-she turned the handle of the lock, and pushed against the door with all her strength, but without moving it. Grown desperate, she planted her feet against the angle, and flung her whole weight against it. The door yielded a little, and finally broke in, throwing her upon the floor with violence. A poisonous vapour poured from the room, so strong that she could scarcely stand upon the threshold. She staggered a moment; but the wind

from her window, and the agitation of the curtains, increased by her opening another door, were clearing the place rapidly. She seized a water-jug, and rushing into Stanilaus's room, flung its contents upon the little cylinder of charcoal, which was glowing from top to bottom. The count was sitting upon a chair, his face lying flat upon the table. She raised him, and sprinkled him with the water; and having opened the window of his room, in a few moments the air had become quite pure.

Stanilaus moaned: Beatrice was preparing to fetch a surgeon, but he was evidently reviving; and she knew how his pride would be wounded, if he recovered and found that his attempt at selfdestruction had been noised abroad. She determined to tend him herself, and, if possible, to keep the circumstance secret.

Stanilaus moved his arm, and continued to moan now and then. She untied his neckcloth, and he opened his eyes, and closed them again, once or twice. He muttered something in a foreign language, which Beatrice could not understand. Once he opened his eyes wide, and stared at her; but he seemed too languid to be surprised at her presence. At length he leaned forward, and burying his face in his hands, that rested on his knees, wept and sobbed like a child.

'Come,' said Beatrice, holding him by the arm, 'lean upon me. You must lie down. You will be better by and by.' Beatrice raised him up, and supported him as he tottered towards the bed, upon which he flung himself. He continued to mutter there for some time, till at last he ceased, and began to breathe regularly. Taking up the light, Beatrice approached the bedside, and saw that he had fallen asleep. Her quick eye noted the nakedness of his room, and read the tale it told. On the table she discovered the book he had left there open, with its inscription, which she read as follows: 'I am Count Stanilaus de Lemberg. I die by my own hands. Let all I possess in this room be sold to pay the rent I shall owe, and to

defray the expenses of my burial. who need be informed of my end. suffered much !-STANILAUS.'

I have no friends or relations
May God pardon me! I have

'Poor creature!' exclaimed Beatrice, as she finished reading with the tears trickling down her cheeks.

IV.

Beatrice sat up with her charge that night. She made him some broth in her room, and came in to work by his table till he should awake. Several hours after, she took up the candle again, and found his eyes open. 'You are quite safe, and getting better,' said she; 'do not be alarmed.'

Stanilaus laid his hand upon the back of hers, and shuddered. 'Do you know me?'

'Yes, yes; I know you,' he replied faintly. 'You are Mademoiselle

Beatrice,' she suggested. She saw that he remembered her. 'God bless you!' exclaimed Stanilaus with fervour.

'Never let us speak of these sad things,' said Beatrice.

Stanilaus grasped her hand firmly, and smiled with an expression of gratitude.

He took the soup she had prepared, and afterwards fell asleep again. Beatrice sent an excuse to her sister the baroness the next day, and resolved to stay by her charge till his recovery was complete. She set his room in order, for the confusion was an eyesore to her. In hanging up his coat, she discovered immediately the missing button, and remembered that she had one among some odds and ends in a drawer. She sewed it on, and repaired the button-holes and edges here and there. She thought Stanilaus was asleep; but he was watching her.

'You are very good,' said he. Beatrice coloured.

'I know you have no mother or sister to do such things,' she replied.

*I had a sister once,' said Stanilaus.

'And where is she?'

'Dead.'

'And your mother?'

'Dead also. I have no relatives. My father died in Siberia, where the Russians sent him into exile. I am the last of my family.' 'What did they send him into exile for?' inquired Beatrice. 'Because he loved his country.'

'The monsters!' exclaimed Beatrice, entering into the spirit of his narrative, like a child listening to a story read aloud. She began to feel a stronger interest in the unfortunate Pole. He told her the history of his life. It was simple. After his father's death, the emperor of Russia had permitted young Stanilaus to return to

Poland, and study in the Gymnasium at Cracow. Here he made progress, and was installed as Professor of Fine Arts. But the young count was restless, and burning to avenge the murder of his father and the wrongs of his country. In the year 1833, he organised and headed a revolt of the students under him. The insurrection failed, and he escaped to England, whence he had come to France, in the hope of finding employment.

'What can you do?' asked Beatrice.

'I can design groups and figures, to be worked in silver or other metals, like the one you see half-finished there.'

'But you can't work them?' said Beatrice.

'Not very well,' replied the count. My hand wants practice.' 'We must see what can be done,' said Beatrice.

As soon as the count recovered, Beatrice advised him to make at once one or two groups, and leave the rest to her. Stanilaus set about them immediately; but he would loiter a good deal preparing his tools, and softening the wax for the models. Sometimes, when he had half-finished one, he would be dissatisfied with it, and destroy it. Beatrice soon discovered his failing. Each night when she returned, she tapped at his room-door, and inquired what progress he had made. If he had been loitering great part of the day, he would generally begin to work hard before she came home, in order to have some result to shew. His deliverer became his taskmaster. He came into her room sometimes to work there; but one day, Beatrice suspecting that he had been idling, refused to let him in. 'Beatrice,' said he, speaking through the door.

'I am busy to-night,' said Beatrice; 'I must be alone.' 'Pray, let me in, Beatrice,' said the count.

'No,' she replied; 'I am firm. When you are here, we talk, and neither of us gets any work done. This will not do.'

'Beatrice,' said Stanilaus-'my dear Beatrice, pray, let me in to-night; I will work to-morrow like a slave.'

'Not to-night,' said Beatrice; 'I am firm.' And Stanilaus was compelled to return to his bench, and work there alone.

Another time she found him smoking one of his enormous pipes, with his work untouched before him.

'This is very bad indeed,' said Beatrice. 'You are nothing but an idle fellow!"

'Don't be angry, Beatrice,' said Stanilaus; 'I could not work to-day. I was in no mood for it.'

'Shame upon you for saying so!' replied his protector, really angry. 'You don't understand, Beatrice. I can't work unless I am in a happy humour.'

"What is the matter?' asked Beatrice.

'I have been thinking of Poland and old times to-day,' he said. 'Indeed, I could not work. Oh, you don't know how heavy my heart is at times!'