shook back her long hair, and turned towards the speaker.

"Fear not," she said; "I shall return to dance over the ashes of the great ;”—and holding the child high over her head, she began to sing in a loud voice a popular ballad, and to throw herself about with the most frantic ges

tures.

""Tis poor mad Louise and her boy;-let her go,” cried a man near the gate.

It was opened for her to pass out, but she hurried not. She still continued her song, till turning at length to the castle, out of whose windows the smoke and flames began to burst with violence, she held up her hand and cried, "Burn on-burn on, ye raging flames;-may ye be the funeral pile of the wicked and the tyrants!"—and with one bound the gate was passed, and Annette, with her precious burden, in safety.

As she well knew the moment her flight was discovered she would be pursued, she followed all the most unfrequented paths, till hunger and fatigue warned her that repose and food were necessary. She therefore entered a cottage, where, notwithstanding her wild looks, and wilder dress, she was hospitably received.

Thus did she continue for many days, living on the charity of the poor cottagers, whose

kindness she repaid with a simple story, or a song of their native hills, till at length she reached the mountains of Switzerland, and then she felt she should be in security. Heaven gave her strength to accomplish her task; and when she had placed Jules in her own mother's arms, she, for the first time, allowed herself to weep for joy. But a few days had elapsed since her arrival in her father's cottage, and she was again on the road to Paris. It cost her many a pang to tear herself from the child whom she had saved, but it must be done. Long did she linger on the mountain's brow, to gaze at him with tearful eyes, as he lay in her mother's arms, stretching out his little hands to his dear Annette, as though imploring her to return.

The result of her journey is known; and the day after his arrival at the farm-house, the Comte's anxiety for the safety of Annette was put an end to by her arrival. Words could not express his gratitude; but when he pressed his Jules to his heart, and implored Heaven to shower down blessings on the head of her who had risked her life for him and his boy, Annette declared it to be the happiest moment of her existence. Long did the Comte, his son, and their faithful preserver remain in seclusion; till at length the Restoration enabled

them to return to the château of St. Clair, where, as may be imagined, Annette was no longer the servant, but the valued and esteemed friend and companion of the Comte and Jules; and on every anniversary of her fête, it was the custom to present her with a garland of convolvuluses. Even now, though many, many long years have passed since that happy time of my childhood, I can well remember my dear father taking me to Annette's cottage, which almost joined the castle, and seeing him place the emblem of her fidelity and affection round those brows, wrinkled with age, while her long white hair formed a strange contrast to the bright blue of the flowers entwined in it. This faithful creature lived to a great age, and at length, beloved and sincerely lamented by all, she expired in the arms of my father.

FATAL CURIOSITY.

AN azure fly, one summer's day,
Came forth beneath the sun's bright ray,
To flit around, from flower to flower,
To visit garden, field, and bower.

His wings to feel the warmth he spread,
Then suddenly he turned his head:

Why have the rose trees thorns ?" cried he, "This thought has often puzzled me.

No other flowers that I have seen,
Have need of darts like these I ween.
Their points are sharp too, people say,—
I'll go and try this very day.

I'll peep too, into yon brown shell,
For oft I've heard my brothers tell,
Of snails jet black, with horned heads,
Who in those dark cells make their beds.
The bees too, that with humming sound,
Flit up and down, and all around,
What are they doing all the day,
Flying from bud, to flower and spray?
Into their hive I'll go and peep,
Perchance they'll all be fast asleep;
If so, their honey I will taste;

See how they hum around in haste."

An aged daisy that grew near,
Then cried: "Bright insect, much I fear,
Your curiosity will gain

Its due reward, both grief and pain."
"Ah! no," the thoughtless insect said;
"Good daisy, do not shake your head,
Your words, no doubt, are very true,
And wise, and learned, but adieu."
And swift he flitted to a bower,
Where flourished many a lovely flower.
He stooped to kiss a violet pale,
Then spread his light wings to the gale,
And flutter'd on where tulips blow,
And where the crimson poppies grow.
At length, a scented rose he spied,
And quick he hastened to her side,
And peep'd beneath the leafy screen,
Where many a pointed thorn was seen.
Too near he ventured, and the dart,
Soon made his wings with anguish smart.
The roses laughed: "Begone," they said,
"Poor insect, hide your silly head!
The thorns are our defence 'tis true,
To drive off curious flies like you."
Away he fled; o'ercome with shame,
His wings too drooping, hurt, and lame,
He hid behind a Dock's broad leaf,
Bursting with anger, pain, and grief.