It would be a task of pain and sorrow to tell all the bitterness of a woman's life, thrown friendless, delicate, and poor, in any land, but especially a stranger one, for one who had been nurtured so gently. Surely—surely, the wind is ever tempered to the shorn lamb!

As the cares of life increased, so grew Minnie's energy; even when a dry crust alone broke her fast of the long, toiling day, her spirits upheld her. "If I have lost him," she mentally said, "it has been for some wise purpose; even though my stubborn heart rebels, still I am not comfortless; have I not my boy?—all my own!—no one to tear his love from me—no one to prejudice him against me: so Heaven preserve him to me, I may yet be content, if not happy!" and the young mother knelt beside him, and prayed fervently for strength to bear all! Poor Minnie knew herself so innocent, she could pray in hope.

There are, unhappily, those who scoff at religion, and call it cant. None are so cheerful and hopeful as those who place their reliance on it, in all afflictions; for they know 'tis a flower which will never fade, and 'tis in our sorrows we so truly discover all its worth, and weep for those who are in ignorance of its powers. Religion is indeed like an Arabian tree, shedding its odorous gums on those who lean against it for support!

Minnie found it so, and she discovered, too, that even in her wretchedness there were others more so. Her room was a poor garret, a cinquiÈme, for as yet she had little work, there are so many seeking life through the same channel—she had no friends—then, too, her child was a burthen to her efforts; she could not at all times leave him, and little Miles was now nearly five months old. Sometimes the conciÈrge of the house, who was better than most of that most mercenary class, would take her child for her, while she sought work. There was ever a fear over her, in going out, lest she should meet Tremenhere. What her hopes were respecting him, who might say? Did she know them herself? or were they those inseparable clingings of the heart, which, like a limpet on a rock, adheres, inseparable from it, however rough the dashing waves? She had hope, else life would have fled. She still resided near Tremenhere's friend, Duplin, whither he often came, and thus, from her high window, she could see his tall figure pass. Ever closely, doubly veiled, and muffled up, she had watched, and met him in the dusk—she had followed too, by day, and seen him, too frequently for her peace of mind, accompany Lady Dora in walks and rides. True, others were there; but he was ever by her side, and she began to question how it might terminate. Of such an event as marriage she had not dreamed, when, allowing all to believe her death, she had become so chilled at heart from the belief of the indifference of all, even poor sorrowing Dorcas, that she had no courage to make a friend there in confidence. "No," she said, in her disheartenment, "not to any of them will I betray my existence; they deserted me living, let them believe me dead!" and a morbid satisfaction at the thought crept over her. But when so fearful a consequence as his marriage with another broke in upon her mind, she became feverish, restless, and incapable of guiding herself aright. Before, however, this terror came to add to her sufferings, she used to toil cheerfully—her boy, lying perhaps on a pillow at her feet, crowing and laughing in her gentle face. Then he was so like his father—the same large brown eyes, and shading lashes, which tempered so much their fire—it was all Miles's face, but with her own light hair, in glossy curls, with a rich, sunny glow on the cheek; and with all the love she lavished on him, the little voice was seldom raised in tears, only laughter—laughter, which convulsed the bright face, as he hung, shrieking with it, round the fair mother's neck. We have said that, even in her wretchedness, Minnie had learned that there were others more so, in outward seeming. In the garret adjoining her own, she frequently heard, as the hours of the night crept on, and she was sitting up completing some work, a quiet, heavy step plodding up and down the room, in evident thought or pain. Often had she listened to this sad neighbour; and his sorrows and loneliness seemed to add to her own. A laugh beside her might have cheered; but this lonely watching wore on her already chastened heart. She asked the conciÈrge one day if she knew who it was.

"A poor old Frenchman," she replied; "very poor, I think, and all alone—but he seems proud in his necessity. And then, madame, you know I cannot do much for any one—I am not rich; and he never gives me an opportunity of speaking. He pays regularly; but I think, poor old man, that his means of existence are very small."

This decided kind-hearted Minnie. "We are never so poor," she said to herself, "but what we can assist one another, even if only by a kind word to lighten life's weary load. I will try and speak to this poor man."

Where a woman resolves upon doing a good action, she generally succeeds in some way. There was something about her, in her voice and manner, which at once inspired confidence and affection in the worthy; and when this pretty, delicate creature, with her little boy in her arms, tapped gently one evening at the next door, and asked for a light, if he had one, of the thin tenant, who was almost bent double by age, and still more, sorrow and poverty, the man's cold face brightened as he answered, while the poor lips trembled with cold, and possibly hunger, "My child, I have none; I am going—going out."

Alas, poor creature! he was going out in the bitterer cold, thinly clad, to endeavour to circulate the nearly frozen blood, before returning to creep into a half-covered bed, and there strive to practise the French proverb of "qui dort dÎne," for he was dinnerless. There was something in the accent not strictly Gallic, though he spoke French.

"Don't go out to-night, mon voisin," she said smiling; "it is wet and cold; you are alone, so am I save for mon enfant. Do you like children?"

"Yes," and he laid his thin hand on little Miles's head; "I love them well; I once had two of my own," and he stifled a sigh.

"Well, then, you shall come in, and do me a neighbourly kindness; I am a poor ouvriÈre, and must work hard to-night—come in, I am going to make a fire; you shall nurse my boy whilst I work—will you oblige me?"

"Willingly," he answered, "if I can serve you."

"That you greatly can. Stay in your room till I have made mine comfortable, and then I will call you, I am so much obliged to you, it will help me greatly, for a child is an embarras sometimes, and I like working and talking—'tis very kind of you."

She had a talent for making the obliged seem her creditors, and thus placing them at perfect ease. So hurrying back to her room, Miles was laid on his accustomed place, a pillow on the floor; lest he should fall off, she seldom placed him on her bed. And then an Asmodeus might have seen Minnie—the fair and gentle—the one on whom the winds of heaven were once almost chidden, if they blew coldly—on her knees, lighting the stove in her room, for she soon found a match; the search for one was an excuse, and her face looked glad—that lip forgot its sadness—she was doing angels' work—charity. In an incredibly short space of time the room looked cheerful—the door of the stove was left open—the wood crackled in it—the glare lighted the humble garret. She drew the old, but clean curtain before the window—lit her lamp—placed her second chair (she had but two) and then she summoned her shivering guest.

"Stay," she cried, as he seated himself, springing up herself; "I have forgotten my bouillotte;" (we cannot call it kettle—it had no resemblance to such a thing; neither can we translate the word, to give any idea of that queer, tin sort of jug, which rattles as if it had marbles in its head, and which is pushed into hot ashes to boil.) "I have forgotten my bouillotte," cried she; "and what should I do without a cup of tea? Do you like tea, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame," he answered, faintly smiling; "but I have not taken any for some time."

"Then we will have a cup together. Are you not English?" she asked, pausing in her arrangement of the bouillotte in the stove; and as she knelt on one knee to do so, she rested the tips of her white fingers (even still) on the floor, to support herself, and looked up in his face like a child. She looked like a picture thus; for the pale face was glowing with pleasure at her good deed, and the close neat little grisette cap concealing all that fair hair, except the braids on her forehead; she looked so innocent and pure, the old man bent his eyes upon that upturned face, and like a father, placing a hand on her shoulder, said in perfect English, though with a slightly foreign accent—

"I have lived much among English, and been in England; but that is long ago. I am a Swiss by birth."

"Oh!" she burst forth in English, "I am so happy to meet some one who speaks my own tongue, it has been a stranger to me so long a time; let us converse always in it: the sound has been lost to me. I have been teaching my child to speak his first word in my native tongue."

"What is your boy's name?" he asked, deeply interested in this fair young mother.

She hesitated a moment. In christening him he had been named "William," as second name, after her father, and by this she generally now called him to strangers; his father's might lead somehow to detection, for frequently the conciÈrge took him in her arms for a walk, when she was too busy to leave home, and always returned with an account of the many persons who stopped to inquire the boy's name. As William, or Guillaume Deval, who might recognize the parents? Almost an impulse induced her to give him Miles's name when this other inquired; but, checking herself, she said "William."

"Has he no father?" asked the old man, caressing the boy, who now sat on his mother's knee; and he looked searchingly at her. But any thought of error fled when you gazed in Minnie's pure face: sin never could look thus.

"We are parted," she said sadly. "Some day, perhaps, monsieur, I may tell you all, and ask your advice; for indeed you seem as an old friend, and father to me. I hope we shall often meet."

And they did; and it seemed as if a blessing followed her good deed, for work came pouring in, and she found constant employment, as we have seen, even from the first dressmakers in Paris—thus she knew of Lady Lysson's party to the bal de l'opera; and her fingers made the domino in which Lady Dora leaned on Tremenhere and listened to his love—so strange a thing is fate! An impulse, impossible to resist, impelled her to visit that scene, whose gaiety harmonized so little with her feelings. She had the two dominoes to make; and in the black one we have seen how much she intrigued Tremenhere—the other she had left with the woman keeping the cloaks, and her foresight served her purpose well, of knowing all. Who may tell the agony of this woman, leaning once again on his arm, and listening to those accents which thrilled her inmost soul—words too of interest fell from his lips, and her bursting heart said, "Throw off your mask, and he will fly you in horror or hate;" but nothing could ever equal in agony that moment when, leaning against the pillar in her second dress, she heard the greater portion of his conversation with Lady Dora; and, worse than all, the promise of the morrow! How could she dive into his heart, and read its sorrow, remorse, and revenge, prompting it to the part he was playing with her cousin? She only saw facts—heard words. She saw him friendly and kind with Lord Randolph; and in his face, whose every look she knew full well, she read confidence and friendship towards that man; then all the hate was her own—it was not mere jealousy, but personal dislike, or he could not so soon have forgotten her! No wonder then she fainted; and, when recovered from her swoon, she declined—nay, peremptorily refused all assistance to take her home—that toiling home, now made doubly painful; she returned to it nearly mad. The conciÈrge, who had taken charge of her boy, was terrified at the paleness of that still face. Minnie said she had a motive for wishing much to go; and the good-natured woman, thinking it so natural, at once consented to keep the boy with her.

"Pauvre pÉtite," said the woman to herself, as she gave the almost silent Minnie her key and lamp. "She has seen her monsieur, I dare say. Ah! I always thought she was not married—but forsaken, and with her child, too! pauvre pÉtite! I will bring up Guillaume," she said aloud. "Tenez! you can scarcely support your own weight, much less his! I'll bring him up to you."

And Minnie thanked her in a whisper, and crept almost lifeless up the stairs.

As yet she had confided nothing of her history to her old neighbour, whom she only knew as a poor man named Georges, who had lost place and fortune. By persuading him that he was useful to her, she had succeeded in making him more frequently her guest, than his own solitary companion. She feared speaking of the past; yet, so much did she love the venerable old man, that she longed to dare confide all, and ask his advice. Now she felt her total inability to act for herself, and resolved to tell him not later than the following day. But there is a destiny ever above ruling, far superior to our puny wills. Next day she was too ill to speak, or see him; she was confined to her bed, where the intense anguish of her mind drove madness through her frame; and the following one she was delirious, and her shrieking voice could only utter one name—"Tremenhere!" It was no moment for false delicacy. The old man, whom she had befriended, stood by her in her need, and the trembling hands wiped the cold moisture from her brow, or held the cup of tizane to her lips. Little Miles was nursed below; and though her eye wandered, seeking something in her madness, she uttered but the one name, sometimes in accents of prayer, sometimes in shrieking horror, for the promised morrow was with her, even in her delirium!