her, and through which could be faintly distinguished outlines of moving forms. These became more and more defined, assuming regularity and substance and meaning, and at length a living picture was presented to Lady Adeline. Its materials were simple-a bare, almost unfurnished room, with two human figures. It was a small chamber with a sloping roof-a garret. The plastered walls were stained into a thousand fantastic shapes by oozing damp, and here and there the plaster had crumbled away, leaving naked to the sight an unsightly array of mouldering lathwood. A fireplace was in one corner, and around the hearth lay one or two simple cooking vessels; but the fire was extinguished, and the little pile of grey ashes left within the grate was cold and sparkless, One window-a little aperture of two panes— admitted light in the daytime; and on the narrow sill, in company with one or two books and pens and ink, was a little flower-pot, containing a few faded violets. A table of common deal, two dilapidated chairs, a chest or two, and a bed uncurtained and most scantily furnished with necessary drapery, formed the furniture of the apartment. But all was scrupulously clean; not a cobweb hung upon the dank walls; not a speck of dust blackened furniture or floor. It was night, and by the light of a small candle, the flame of which wavered and flickered as draughts and eddies of cold wind blew through the room-a girl sat stooping over needlework. The light was dim and inconstant. She pressed her eyes with her fingers, and then bent resolutely down to her task. Sometimes a shiver ran through her, and an exclamation wrung by the pinching cold escaped her; but the complaint took no form of words. Her white fingers moved with unnatural dexterity, and as she laboured, flowers of gayest hues grew from her handiwork upon the glittering satin she was embroidering. A boy sat upon a stool by her, gazing into her face, and sometimes laying his head upon her lap. It seemed to be the girl whose image had displaced the Grecian statue, and Lady Adeline turned quickly round to look at her; but nothere she stood still, and seemed to view her other self with a faint smile. A sound of bells came upon the night windone-two-three! "Three o'clock," said the boy. "Do, sister -won't you go to bed? it is so late, and you are so tired; this is the third night you have sat up." "Presently, Charley, presently; but you see I must first finish the flower." "That is the eighty-fourth. How much will you get for embroidering all these?" "Öne-and sixpence," said the girl. "Oh, but if the lady knew how you were paid she wouldn't think these flowers adorned her." "Hush, foolish," said his sister, "the lady knows nothing of us; we are born to toil, and we must do our duty. Perhaps, if we were grand and rich, we, too, should forget that there are poor and struggling in the world, as well as others do now." A sharp fit of coughing interrupted her. "It is nothing," she said, when it passed away, "don't be frightened, Charley, it does not hurt me now, it only makes me faint and weak; but I think I am getting better than I was." Alas! those eyes flashing with inward fever, the hectic spot on the cheek, the feet and limbs so cold and clammy, did they not tell a tale to make the demon of consumption smile with a ghastly consciousness of its power and its wiles? "Perhape some time I may get to the country, Charley, and that would make me quite well." She spoke this with a smile of hope, but her heark sunk when she said it, "It's a long time, Emmy, since we saw green trees and walked on green grass; oh! how you used to play with me then, and laugh and sing, and how happy we used to be. Do you remember, Emmy?" "Yes," said the girl, in a choking voice. "We have been here since father and mother died-a long sad time!" The boy spoke in a tone of melancholy sweetness, and his sister hid her face in her hands. "Oh, Emmy," he continued, "could I not do anything-anything to help you? You are wearing yourself out. You are killing yourself by inches in this dark hole. You have no light or food; nothing but work, work, work!” The girl raised her head, and said, in a solemn tone "Charley, you must never forget me-your poor sister." 66 Forget you!" said the boy. "Yes, you will have a long-oh, I hope, a happy life. I have done for you all a poor girl could, and you have been a great comfort to me, Charley. You have been a good boy. You are a good boy. You have not repined and fretted when we were cold and hungry; and you have believed me when I said that at last there would be a recompense for all." "Oh, yes, yes," sobbed the boy, "for youespecially for you. Oh, you are a good angel; you never murmured; you ever endured. You kept me from thinking wicked thoughts—“ay, Emmy," said the child, his voice assuming a particular expression, and his eyes gleaming through their tears; "ay, Emmy, and when I was hungry and cold and wretched, you kept me from thieving in the streets!" "God be praised! God be praised!" exclaimed the girl; "be a brave boy; die first; better to die young, honest, thau live old-a thief!" "Yes, yes," cried the child, "I will think of you when I am tempted; and when I think of you I never can do wrong!" She drew him fondly to her, and kissed his forehead. There was a pause. "I am getting idle," the girl said at length. | dashing through the snowy streets, rapidly She addressed herself again to her work." The approaching a low and densely-crowded quarter boy remained with his face hid in her lap. of the great city; and on the way Adeline told her husband her dream. Busily plied that ceaseless needle-rich the ornaments that rose under its creative power. The child sobbed at intervals, and then sank into a deep sleep, his head still reelining on his sister's knees. The low moaning of the wind, the dash of the sleeted rain against the window, the rustling of the rich satin, and an occasional shivering moan of cold, were the only sounds that broke the silence. Four o'clock. Still glanced the needle through the rich stuff before the embroidress; only now and then were her aching eyebells pressed by her trembling hand. The child still slept. She looked glad of it. But weariness was fast overcoming her. Long she seemed to strive against it; but nature cannot be utterly set at nought. Her hands faltered; her head sunk on her bosom; it was lifted with a start, again to sink; and at length a gradual stupor-like sleep came over her, and she remained motionless. As her hand strayed in its last mechanical movement, the chimes of five o'clock were heard on the wind. The picture became dim; clouds and vapours grew before it; the outline became confused, and the shadowy vision passed away. "And in what is the guerdon of this toilthis saintlike endurance?" said the lady, with streaming eyes. "In Death!" seid the voice in her soul. "Death!" It was repeated by the phantoms around. Gathering in a circle, their thin lips moved, and seemed to gibber forth "Death!" The sound came rolling out of the darkness, "Death!"-it murmured in the air, "Death!" Oh, horrible! but, more horrible yet, the rustle of the satin dress seemed to repeat "Death !" Every cunningly-wrought flower which gemmed it turned into a pallid, dying girl's face, or into the semblance of a fleshless skull; and the faces and the skulls all spoke together, and made up an awful chorus with the spirits around, and the voice within of Death, death, death !" 66 The Lady Adeline started up. The spell was broken-the vision gone! Around her were gilded saloons, gay with mirrors, and paintings, and rich draperies, and beside her the Grecian statue, majestic in its spotless marble. A face was close to her, and an arm upon hers. It was her husband. "Heavens ! what a dream! come near me !" George, George, "You are excited, dearest. Hush! let them not observe it. I see it all. I watched the impression the poor girl made upon you. I was delighted to see it. Come with me; I have ascertained her address from her brother; she would go nowhere but to her own poor home. I said I would follow to relieve her; will you go with me?" Leaving the carriage in a narrow street, they proceeded through others still narrower. The white snow had been trampled into mud, a chilling wet wind blew in gusts, and foot passengers well muffled up made for shelter as fast as possible; still there were symptons of the festive season around. From uncurtained windows came streams of light, and through halfopened doors issued barsh music and rude sounds of merriment. It was coarse, ribald, sometimes drunken mirth, but it was mirth for all that. Now and then the shrill sound of children's noises, screaming an unmusical carol, came piercingly down the street; and again it was answered by the deep gruff voice of a half tipsy man returning home in a jolly mood, with the echoes of the song he had last heard, and the catch he had just joined in ringing in his head. The Lady Ádeline and her husband at length stopped at a battered, mud-encrusted door, and, after hesitating a moment, pushed it open, and ascended the staircase. It was a work of some peril for strangers. In many places the bannis. ters had been broken off, probably turned into firewood by some free-and-easy lodger; and there was only the light of a wasted flickering tallow candle, the wick half-drowned in its own grease, to show the slippery footing. The walls were streaming with damp, and traced over with hundreds of uncouth figures, and villanous scrawls in chalk and charcoal. Yet amid all this discomfort and wretchedness there was still an attempt made to pay the due offering to the festive time. Over the tin sconce in which the candle flickered, and from which the melted grease hung like bunches of icicles, there was nailed to the wall a branch of mistletoe. Somewhere about a dozen families, large and small, inhabited this domicile; and as the visitors passed each landing-place they heard sounds of uproarious jollity echoing from within. At length they reached the top of the house. A faint light issued from a closed door opposite. They stood and listened. There was a low choking sound within, as of a child's sobs; in a moment it was drowned by the slang chorus of a drinking song roared out below. The door was unsecured by latch or lock; so they pushed it open and entered. Lady Adeline started back and uttered an exclamation of surprise and horror. There was the chamber she saw in the dream-the bed, the table, the chairs, and the occupants, the boy and the girl. She was stretched upon the wretched bed, still wrapped in the wet shawl she had worn during the evening. Her needles and thread, and little articles of her craft, lay unheeded upon the table. The boy was kneeling by the bed, and his sister's face was towards his. There was a calm smile upon the features; one hand rested upon her brother's forehead, and the other "Oh, yes, yes! with my whole soul !" was clasped in both of his. The candle, almost In five minutes the splendid equipage was sunk in its socket, faintly showed the scene, and "Emmy, Emmy! sister, sister!" cried the child; one word more, Emmy-one last word !" The chorus of the drinking-song heard through the open door was the only reply. He chafed the hand he held in his mildly. "She will soon be better; it is only a faint. She fainted to-day already." Adeline was deeply affected. My poor hoy," said her husband. "Ah! have you come? I thought you would; you looked so kind," said the boy. And then resuming with a broken voice, but speaking very fast- "She lay down when we got home, and looked at me a long time without speaking; only she clasped my hand; and hers was--oh! so wet and cold! And at last she said, 'Charley, be a brave, good boy; don't forget me, your poor sister Emmy; kiss me.' And I kissed her. And then she put one hand on my brow, and I took the other in my own, and she smiled and closed her eyes. She has fainted, she is so weak. Poor sister!" The visitors stooped over the outstretched girl, and felt her forehead and her hands. Cold -cold! dead! With streaming eyes Adeline tried to unclasp the lifeless hand locked in the boy's. The poor dead fingers had already stiffened. It seemed sacrilege to unlock the clasp. At length she succeeded. The boy broke into loud lamentations: it seemed as if he felt the last bond was broken between his sister and himself. She was gone-gone for ever! The lady crossed the thin arms upon the bosom, and, stooping over the still smiling face, reverently kissed the brow of the dead girl. An hour afterwards the poor child, weakened with want of food and rest, had cried himself to sleep. But it was not in the lonely garret with his sister's corpse, but in a rich bed, in a silkencurtained chamber, and watched by the Lady Adeline, who hung over his couch, and tended him like a mother. Her husband was there too, and they spoke in whispers of the dead sister. "Ay," he said, and he drew his wife towards him; "this will be a really eventful Christmas, Adeline. It has read you a great lesson. You have seen the end of a noble heart; but it has its great reward-meek, firm, pure, loving heart! Wherever there are such, whatever blood they may beat with-whatever creed they may trust in, they will be the champions and the chosen of their kind-or the very name of justice is a mockery, and every pure, and bright, and ennobling aspiration of humanity a living lie!" A CHRISTMAS LAY. BY J. P. SHORTHOUSE. The waning year is well nigh gone, And, 'neath chill winter's sway, The circling season's course brings on Another Christmas day : And, wandering o'er the waste of time, Transported by the loftier strains, Borne up to realms where glory reigns, To learn, amidst the glorious choir, To hymn the great eternal King, Who from his bosom sent his Son, Our fearful debt to pay, When we were ruined and undoneThis be our Christmas Lay. In raptures, on that joyful morn A Saviour Christ our King. "From Glory's height for you I came, To save you from your thrall; In more than pristine beauty frame, And raise you from your fall. To gain your love I stooped to earth And in a manger lay: To call you to a nobler birth To learn your Christmas Lay. "And now the evening shades draw on; And cleave the starry way; Oh! swell the song till times last hour, His glory's bright display, BB OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT. MY DEAR C—, This month has been a month of mourning for the Parisians; several eminent men gone to their last home, and others threatening to take the same route. Rossini, De Rothschild, Havindead; Berryer, de Lamartine, very ill and laden with age. The celebrated composer of "William Tell," died full of years and honours, and his death has called forth universal regret. During his illness bulletins were daily issued as in the case of sovereigns and princes, and their Majesties in the midst of the fêtes at Compiegne sent expressly to inquire after the Italian "mæstro." The news of his demise arrived at the Italian Opera just as la Patti was going to sing. The Marquis of Caux, who was in his wife's box, would not allow it to be announced to her until after the Opera was over. It seems the Marchioness burst into tears on hearing the sad news, and postponed her soirée for the next evening. His corpse has been embalmed after the manner invented by an Italian, and which attracted so much attention at the last Exhibition: a kind of petrification, and was afterwards put into the vault under the "Madeline" until the funeral, which took place some days after, amidst an immense concourse of spectators, as much, I daresay, to hear the mass composed by Rossini and sung by the "elite" of our Opera singers. Rossini had always passed for a sceptic, and had refused to see a priest; however, it appears that at last he confessed, and received absolution; though some say that, he was too far gone to know what he was doing. Curious enough, he was very superstitious, and died on a Friday, the thirteenth of the month. The death of M. Havin the far famed editor of the " Siecle," has not greatly affected the clerical party; in their hearts they rejoice. It is an opponent the less for the Pope. The "Union," a right-thinking paper, however, declares that, after all, M. Havin died in the Roman-catholic faith, and was attended by a priest in his last moments. The poor man was insensible for several days before he died, so certainly knew not what was going on around him; and, strange to say, these great sceptic's wives and daughters are always very bigoted, and take great care that priests and sisters shall be near at the last moments, so that it may be said that the sceptic after all died in the Roman faith. Very often, indeed, extreme unction is administered to the dying when he is insensible, but appearances are saved, and that is sufficient. I was a witness to a very amusing scene about a month ago, between M. Havin and a lady at St. Lô, near his summer residence in Normandy. The lady is a rigid Roman-catholic. We were at breakfast at her house; all present were protestants except her family. The "dejeuner" was exquisite; dish after dish excited our appetite, sweetbread, game, and fowl; it makes one's mouth water only in thinking of it. And a merry party we were, our hostess had just declared that she never had felt so hungry, and was then picking the wing of a roast chicken with great gusto, when a carriage and pair drove up to the door. "It is Monsieur Havin," said the doctor, our host; and the next moment in walked the deputy for "la Manche," who immediately sat down to table with us. It seems our hostess had not long before lectured M. Havin on his impious ways, and amongst other things had declared that nothing but illness and an order of a doctor would ever make her eat meat on a meager day. The breakfast continued. Our hostess had just helped herself to another tit-bit, when M. Havin, to our great astonishment, said very seriously to her, "Vous ètes malade madame? you are ill, Madame?" The lady blushed scarlet. "Oui, Monsieur," she answered to our increasing surprise, "it is by order of my doctor." "A husband for doctor is very convenient;" and then followed such a volley of jokes on the poor creature-for of course every one guessed that it was a meager day, and that the lady had been caught in the fact of violating her principles. It was all the more "piquant" that the exposure was before protestants to whom she had also very often expressed her severity in the observance of all the church ordinances. "Mais revenons à Paris." The Queen of Spain still continues to attract attention, her majesty seems to have accepted her position, and not to allow her misfortunes to overwhelm her. She goes every morning to mass at the church St. Germain l'Anxerrois, has visited all our places of note, receives company every Thursday, and goes out on foot every evening with the king and the Prince des Austruries. She seems to be very flattered with the numbers of people that surround her at her hotel at her hour of going out. Some, no doubt, sympathize with her, but I think curiosity is the predominant feeling with the Parisians. Her majesty is not to be invited to Compiegne. The Duke and Duchess of Madrid (Don Carlos) gave a ball the other evening. It is said that they entertain great hopes of being called to Spain, and were full of gaiety and high spirits. A party of Parisian liberals, that is, republicans drew up a splendid manifesto the other day for the Spaniards, and one of them was commissioned to take it to Madrid, I have not heard how he was received. I should hope he had a constitution drawn out for them also; amongst the many the French have made for themselves they could well spare one for the Spaniards. The day before All Saints' Day, the Romancatholics visited the tombs of their dead relations 66 Our Paris Correspondent. ing for the Emperor at the bottom of the stairs ; When the tale was known, of course it caused great laughter, but the poor firemen had rushed off, crestfallen and on foot, to the inn, where they told the owner of the brougham they had hired to send for his carriage, as they would not dare return. Apropos, what colours think you are to be answer his and friends. This year a party of these same republicans visited a certain tomb where rests the body of Baudin, shot on the barricadoes in Several speeches were the last Revolution. delivered over it, and verses read, which, of course, assembled a concourse of people, until the police interfered and marched five or six off to prison. Their trial came off last week, and they were all condemned to a certain fine and imprisonment. Their friends in the Latin quarter, to revenge them, paraded some of the streets in bands to annoy the police, and extinguished the gaslights but there stopped their vengeance. However, threats of a disturbance on the second of December are afloat, and they say that Monsieur Baroche has sent a circular to the Attorney-general and M. Pinard to the préfets, containing orders to suppress in the severest manner all manifestations on that anniversary. One would think that Government is afraid of something. Let that be as it may, the Court is enjoying a very gay season at Compiegne. The Empress dresses four times a-day, three simple, and one magnificent dress in the evening, and she has never yet put the same dress on twice. No wonder that her dressmaker's bill last year, amounted to 14,000 francs, and yet she is far from paying extravagantly, but bargains like a common bourgeoise," Her dressmaker loses on everything she makes for her, and is said to dread a command. It is only the other ladies it brings to her that makes the honour of being dressmaker to the Empress profitable. When her majesty bespeaks a dress, a dozen must be made and brought to her to choose from: once selected, it is not allowed to leave the Palace, but any alteration or jewels to be fixed on must be done there, and it seems that the amiable, smiling lady we see in public is anything but an angel of patience if the dress does not fit, the foot is stamped, and the mouth pronounces words that are not for ladies' mouths; but hush! ladies must be pardoned on such occasions. Her majesty no longer wears her famous emeralds, but is now generally covered with diamonds. The Court had a good laugh the other day. The firemen of a neighbouring town to Compiegne determined to ask for the Croix de la Légion d'Honneur for their captain; so profiting by the sojourn of the Emperor at Compiegne, two of them went to that town on that errand. What would become of all our new After a good breakfast, with a glass or two of Who would be able to determinate wine to give them courage, they hired a brough- unfinished boulevards, streets, and edifices if am at the inn, and off they started to the palace. he were? They gained admission as far as the flight of our new Opera-house, the marvel of the age; steps in front of the château, when one of the say some? Fancy, it only contains five-hundred en- chimneys! It is a pity that all these embellishchamberlains told them his majesty was A simple outgaged; so they left their request with the ments serve to increase the expenses of Paris, officer, descended the steps and got into their which goes always "crescendo." carriage, and away they started back, but, house or cart-house, which five years ago was arrived at the gates of the park, they heard cries let for 400 francs, now lets for 1800 francs; and of "Vive l'Empereur!" from several persons everything else is in proportion, and our 'Bureaux de Bienfaisance." Benevolent offices grouped there anxious to get a glimpse of Napoleon III. They put a head on either side have already sent us circulars to get our donations ready for the poor, as they intend sending Other years this was only for a stare; when lo! and behold it was to their carriage that the cries were addressed, round immediately. They had got into the brougham that was wait done in January. I see that poor little new-born A rich proprietor whohas lately made a fortune, |