i character with which it deals; and then it | This is not the tone or aspect of Chris- mais des dévotions. Il multipliait les neuvaines, courait à tous les autels, faisait des vœux, brûlait des cierges. Car il avait non seulement de la dévotion, Le 2 janvier, nouvelles alarmes: alors, neuvaine à SainteGeneviève, et vou, non plus du chapelet, mais du rosaire tous les jours. . .. Puis, aux approches de la fête de Saint François de Sales, nouvelle neuvaine à ce grand Saint de la Savoie. Prières à la Vierge de SaintSulpice, à la Vierge fidèle, à la Vierge. très prudente, partout.f Cf. Leroy-Beaulieu, Revue des Deux Mondes, 1884, 15 Décembre, pp. 830 and 834-40, a passage full of suggestive thoughts concerning the relation of the Church to the cause of liberty. Cf. also M. Renan's Souvenirs, p. 190 (ed. 1886). t Lagrange, i. 524. of human voices dies away, then the leaders of men see clearly and think truly; then the inner voice is heard without distraction. No artist paints his best if admiring friends are always chattering in his studio; and perhaps the finest work of all has been done in the years before even one word of encouragement or praise broke in upon the loneliness in which a great man trusted the truth he saw. But round Mgr. Dupanloup there was ever a full chorus of enthusiastic admiration; he lived in a hubbub of superlatives; everything he did or said or wrote surpassed everything he had done or said or written in the past; and whatever hard things his enemies might say of him, his friends could always hurry up with fresh stores of reassuring panegyrics. Doubtless much allowance must be made for French effusiveness; but he would have been a stronger man, and would probably have rendered to the Church more lasting service, if he had been suffered sometimes to work, even for a while, unpraised. In the interesting chapter which closes. the work of M. Lagrange, and is ruthlessly omitted by Lady Herbert, the abbe sketches in outline the generous labors of the work of the ministry; and then he Mgr. Dupanloup in the bishopric of souls, says (before he passes on to the political and controversial life): "Voilà ce qu'il a fait pour l'Eglise, au sein de l'Eglise; mais, si grand que cela soit, il semble que ce soit peu encore devant l'éclat de ses luttes au dehors pour cette sainte épouse de Jésus-Christ."* We cannot help feeling inclined to reverse the preference in that comparison. We believe that the real greatness of the Bishop of Orleans will be found, not in the splendid exercise of his conspicuous gifts, not in his famous battles or eager altercations, not where Lagrange, iii. 487. the applause and clamor were loudest all To-night, however, it was creeping over around him, but in the patient and loving her, faint, ill-defined, but yet she was care with which he watched and worked aware of something that precluded the. for the peace and welfare of single souls; calm in which she essayed to live, and in his gentle, truthful counsels for the which made her feel restless and ill at highest life; in his tenderness of ministry ease. to little children; in the utter self-surrender with which he sought to serve his Lord; in the wisdom and severity with which he strove through silent days and nights of prayer, to keep his own soul pure and true and humble, amidst all the toil, the anxiety, and the honor to which God had called him. From Blackwood's Magazine. EBERHARDT. CHAPTER III. Since, if you stood by my side to-day, TIME, after all, if it does not change us, does not convert us into something absolutely different, or even offer an asylum from the past, still always effects something. To weak human nature it suffices to move out of the immediate shadow to find that the point of view has altered. It is almost impossible to look at anything in exactly the same light to-day and six months hence; and though the facts may not have changed in any perceptible degree, the burden, from merely being viewed from another point, has shifted, and the sufferer is eased. Nothing had altered. Eberhardt was Sigismund Westenholz, whose personality had been the pain of her youth; the gold circlet on her finger spoke always of the bond, that at least nominally linked her to him, making his name hers. There was still all that bitter memory of deceit and cruelty that had placed her in his power, separating her by mere force of circumstances from the brother she loved; and yet, as she went over it to-night, under the starlight, the story did not read itself exactly the same as when she had first heard it. Perhaps the soft balmy night air had something to do with it; perhaps, all unconsciously, healing had been stealing over her in these many months in which so little had arisen to remind her of the wound. At first it had seemed as if she could never forget, but little by little the cloud had lifted, until sometimes now the more difficult thing was to remember that she was living in its shadow. These past weeks had been so quiet and peaceful; she had grown to feel at home under this roof which had received her, in the gentle companionship of the kind woman with whom she lived, whom she had learned to know as Madame Esler, and whom she had never learnt to associate with that closed page of her story. When she had left yonder, as she vaguely denominated the valley over which the ruins of Castle Breitstein gloomed, she had had no plans, no intentions for the future. To get away from the castle and its in-. fluences was the immediate longing; and, that accomplished, she had accepted the new life that seemed to have opened out to receive her, in the spirit that it was a home which was to be hers forever. And nothing had happened different to-day from any other day, or such a slight thing that it was scarcely worth making an addition of to the ordinary day's ordinary events. All this long, hot summer day had passed without a disturbing thought to ruffle its serene surface. The young gladness, which at one time had apparently been banished forever, had seemed beckoning her back into youth, reminding her that she was but a girl after all, and a girl whose hole life had been overshadowed. of But the sunshine had stolen about her to-day, and a reflection of it had warmed her heart also, and she had sung little snatches of half-forgotten songs as she wandered about the lovely garden in the early morning gathering roses; and the sound had gladdened the ears of the elder woman, and she had risen and pushed aside the curtains to catch a glimpse Leigh in the morning sunshine, and tears had stolen into her kind eyes-tears of thankfulness at the soft outlines that were bringing back youth to the face, to the delicate color that was finding its unaccus tomed way under the dark eyes. Madame Esler uttered a word of thankfulness as she noted this, and remembered the gir who had appealed to all the undemanded motherliness with which her heart over flowed, on that past winter night; but when, a minute later, she returned to her unfinished letter, she sighed as she took up her pen. "You ask me," she wrote, "if she has spoken of the past? No; no word of reference to it has crossed her lips. And I obey you. I have said nothing to her, though sometimes it would ease my heart to do so." They lived a quiet life, these two women, in the old-fashioned house, with its lovely gardens and quaint clipped hedges, amongst which Leigh loved to wander. A quiet life, with few neighbors for they were many miles from the little townbut yet not lonely. And to all alike—to every one who broke the monotony of their daily life-Madame Esler introduced the girl who had come to live with her as "Madame Westenholz," otherwise it would have been hard sometimes to realize the past was not a dream. Sometimes a question would follow, and Madame Esler would further add, "She is a young relation; " but Leigh herself beeded little the questions or explanations. She was content to drift and to forgetif it were possible. But this afternoon, when, the long hot day over, she had been going up-stairs to dress for dinner, a little thing had disturbed her. Lying on the table, she had seen, as she passed through the hall, a letter, and almost unconsciously she had read the address 66 - Eberhardt, Post-office, Breitstein." sombre style of the furniture, which was dark and faded, as if it had worn out under the influence of human presence, not stood apart and covered up, as was the case with most of the other rooms into which she had strayed. Here everything Here Leigh had entered-still singing was homely and comfortable, as if for use; her little song, still with the soft color on and if the style was sober, that was coun her cheeks to arrange her flowers, and teracted by the lovely view across the madame had turned from her letter to lis-gardens and the park, to the distant shinten to the girl's talk. ing river. Opening out of the bedroom, and divided from it only by a curtain, was another room that served as boudoir. It contained little but a heavy writing-table and two or three pictures-pictures of faces or figures, of a type that suited the serious character of its arrangements, but which yet were oddly at variance with the usual character of boudoir decoration. One especially attracted Leigh's attention every time she entered the room. It was called "The Vow," and there was little in the picture except the one man's figure tall, upright, alert, standing in a silent, empty street, on which the moonlight shone grey and ghostly. Facing her, he stood, an unsheathed sword in his hand, his dark eyes, under their straight black brows, looking into hers. Something in their expression would now and then reach her heart as she paused in the doorway before entering in; or as she sat reading or working at the table, she would lift her eyes to those above her, and wonder what it meant. What was he vowing there alone in the moonlight? What had prompted that sudden movement? Love, hate, good, evil what was it? What had the painter meant by it? Once she had asked Madame Esler, but she had only told her that it had been bought out of the Salon years ago by one of the house; that the story, if there were a then she pur-story, she had never heard-"though it tells one of itself," she added, "and that should suffice, even if it be a different one from the one that the painter had in view." The once familiar name, so long unheard, stirred a quick tide of emotion which brought a wave of color to her cheeks; and she paused, leaning against the banister for a moment, unable to take her eyes from the words. But only for a moment, sued her way upwards; but the memories that had rushed back at that unexpected lifting of the curtain which kept them out of sight, would not be banished all at once. "Eberhardt! 19 The name stood out before her not the new name which was associated with such bitterness, but the old familiar name at which she had shuddered as a child, and which later on With a movement in which there was a little impatience, she hastened her steps and pushed open the door of her room. It was a room that had charmed her from the first. It was not large or imposing indeed, in comparison with the other unused apartments in the house it was small; but there was something peculiarly pleasing about the somewhat But to Leigh the vagueness dissatisfied; she would have preferred it rounded off into something definite, and often she would speculate and make out a story for herself. She had banished as soon as possible the momentary glimpse of the letter that had disturbed her, though, passing down to dinner, almost involuntarily her eyes had strayed to where it had been, but it had disappeared. Of course the post went out at this time, but now and again she found her thoughts following it on its out ward journey. And now, now that the evening was over, and she stood alone in her room, the memory of it came back. She had dismissed old Margaret, but she had not got into bed. No; it was such a lovely warm night. She was not sleepy, - she would sit up a little longer. But when Margaret had brushed out the soft dark hair, and wished her good-night, she did not continue the book she had been reading, but, pushing wider open the window, leaning her elbows on the sill, she looked forth into the night. Such glorious starlight, with a slender crescent moon,-its quiet and beauty seemed to belong to another world. And, as she leaned thus, there stole once more into her thoughts the memory of that letter. She did not wish to think of it, but there seemed no possibility of escape. What had it contained? She had been mentioned, of course, and how? The past, which she had so nearly escaped, was clutching at her again, and showing how much a part of the present it still was. For the first time for long weeks that desolate room in Breitstein stood out before her, a vague, dim background for the one erect figure standing so strong and distinct. The silence with which those passionate reproaches had been met seemed closing round her again; the eyes, so stern and gloomy, were looking into hers. She made a little impatient movement, but thought was not to be banished by that; something still held her enchained there, whilst that terrible scene re-enacted itself, and, as if held by something stronger than her own will, she remained on, albeit half-unwillingly. But at length past and present grew entangled, some thought suddenly flying across the vague darkness seeming to serve as a revelation. She lifted her head, which had drooped on to her folded arms, and said, "I am sleepy-dreaming," and yet all the time was aware that the dream was truth. With a few hasty steps she crossed to where the open door revealed the light still burning in the inner room, but on the threshold paused, it was an almost unconscious habit, and met the eyes of the picture looking down upon her; the familiar picture the tall figure in its rich dark dress, the moonlight shining weirdly down on the silent street and on the uplifted sword. Was she dreaming still? Clasping her hands, shrinking back as if the pictured figure had come to life, she stood in the doorway, recognizing in a moment's flash that these were the same eyes of which she had been thinking. the eyes that had looked into hers in the dreary room at Breitstein. And with that flash, in a moment, yet more seemed to be revealed. This had been his room; all these surroundings had been his. Here he had worked, and read, and lived; from here he had gone forth to that life that she had known. All at once the place seemed alive with his presence; influences were all about her, voices which spoke of what he had dreamed and done between these four narrow walls. The curtain that hid the past was torn down, and in the quiet and stillness it was as if he were there, a shadow amidst these shadows. She felt her heart-beats quicken, and she was trembling so that she could scarcely stand; but with hands clasped she stood still, under a spell, in which to move or speak were alike impossible. She would have shaken it off if she could, but that seemed as impossible as when she had striven to escape his actual presence before. He had helped her then, she found herself acknowledging, but now he was avenged; this strange influence which held her here - this influence which spoke to her from the pictures on the walls, and the books whose titles had sufficed, and which she had left undisturbed and unread -was stronger than she was capable of resisting, and she shrank from it, as if in terror. She still stood facing the picture, whose strange resemblance seemed to increase with every moment, feeling imprisoned by the knowledge that had thus suddenly come to her, when swiftly, as it had come, the terror died away. It was as if a soft touch stilled the quickened pulses; the loud beating of her heart grew quieter; the dark eyes into which she looked seemed to express their meaning. you "Why should you fear? Why are afraid of me? Have I not promised," and the uplifted sword, on which the ghostly light gleamed, seemed recording the vow in the sight of heaven. The spell was loosed, the terror that had possessed her vanished away. With a sigh that might have been relief she turned away, taking up the candle which burned on the table, and recrossed the curtained threshold into the other room. Here there were fewer ghosts, surely nothing to alarm her here, only the one fact that his presence had once been the life of these rooms, that it was in his footsteps she was following, that she was living amid the surroundings from which he had so long been exiled. Standing for a moment with the thought - it was almost a sad one flooding her, she lifted the light and looked around. So little here but the dull, old-fashioned furniture, and the one dark, eager boy's face over the chimneypiece. Just the head of a dark-haired lad, with the eager light of youth in his eyes, she had often looked at it with pleasure, it was so full of life and hope; but to-night, when her eyes were turning to the accustomed spot, she blew out the candle before they reached it. It told another story now, she did not wish to see it. It bore no glad prophetic promise of a full life into which that had blossomed, but instead spoke of failure and disappointment, bitterness and solitude. To any one who had cared for the boy, how terrible the knowledge of what the future held, into which those eager eyes had looked! To any one who cared for the man, how terrible the knowledge of the possibilities of his boyhood! Something so like a sob escaped her, that it startled and aroused her to the consciousness of the fact that she was still standing in the dark, the soft summer wind blowing in through the open window, through which were visible the distant shining stars. CHAPTER IV. It is a law that resistance must be equal to force. PERHAPS her unusual vigils made her oversleep herself, for it was late when Leigh made her appearance next morning, and there was something about her manner, some languid look, to which Madame Esler had grown unaccustomed, which made her ask if she had slept badly. he was a young man; it was painted by a friend of his." She waited also, having spoken, as if hoping or expecting something further; but when the girl next spoke she had drifted into another subject, and the former one was not referred to again. - And there was something else impending, which in their quiet lives was important, at least to madame, a visit. And it was so seldom that she left home that the very idea was slightly. agitating; and in addition, to leave Leigh alone, though it was only for a couple of days, was an extra source of disturbance. But Leigh, learning it was an old friend to whom this annual pilgrimage was to be made, would not hear of its being postponed; she declared herself quite able to amuse herself during the two days' solitude. "Shall I ask some one to stay with you?" madame had suggested. "There is Emilie Sybel would gladly come, I have no doubt-or would you rather go to her?" Leigh, however, refused either alterna tive. "I shall be very happy alone, dear madame do not think of me; I shall garden till you return." She was an indefat igable gardener. "I should be really unhappy," as madame still hesitated, “if you let my presence interfere with your plans." Thus it was decided; but though the journey, which was only a long drive, was often spoken of, and all the particulars discussed, it was only on this very day, when the departure was so imminent, that Leigh recognized her ignorance of ma"Not very well," the girl allowed; and, dame's destination. And thus thinking, not giving time for any comment, "Ma-"What is the name of the lady with whom dame" she said, more as if making a you are going to stay?" she asked. statement than asking a question, "that room was your brother's, was it not?" She lifted her eyes steadily as she spoke, but the lashes fell before the answer came. Yes, it was Sigismund's," madame said quietly. "In many ways it is one of the pleasantest rooms in the house, though it is not large; but if you take a fancy to another, you know you have only to tell me." For half a second the girl hesitated, and then, "No, no," she said quickly, “I do not want to change-I have been there so long." She paused, and then be ginning a fresh sentence: "The face in the picture is rather like him." "He sat for it," madame replied, "when 3070 LIVING AGE. VOL. LX. There was scarcely any perceptible hesitation before Madame Esler answered in her quiet tones, "Von Cortlandt." "Cortlandt?" Leigh repeated, with a quick catching of her breath, a sudden step nearer to madame. "Madame von Cortlandt," madame repeated. "She is an old friend of mine." "Her daughter" began Leigh impetuously. "Her daughter," Madame Esler interposed, "was once engaged to my brother." There was a pause, the two women looking at one another the one who had faced and borne sorrow until it was conquered, only the dark hair so early whitened telling what the battle had cost; the other, striving in her ignorant rebellious |