She did not find her mother at the chateau: Madame d'Urtis was overjoyed to see her.

"Well, my lost sheep," she said, "you have come back again to the fold."

"Yes," said DaphnÈ, sadly; "I am come back never to stray again. See, here is my broken crook, and Daphnis will never come to cut me another."

She told every thing to Madame d'Urtis. The Duchess did not know whether to laugh or scold; so she got over the difficulty by alternately doing both.

In the Chateau de Langevy, Hector continued firm in the presence of his father, and even of his cousin. He told them every thing exactly as it occurred; and spoke so enthusiastically and so sincerely, that the old Baron was somewhat softened. Clotilde herself was touched, and pled in Hector's behalf. But the old Baron was firm, and his only answer was, "In eight days he will forget all about her. I am astonished, Clotilde, to see you reason so absurdly."

"Oh, my dear uncle!" said Clotilde, "I believe that those who reason the worst on such a subject are the most reasonable."

"I tell you again, in a week he will have changed his divinity—you know that very well; or I don't see the use of your having such beautiful eyes."

"Be sure of this, uncle," replied Clotilde, in a more serious voice, "Hector will never love me, and besides," she added, relapsing into gaiety once more, "I don't like to succeed to another; I agree with Mademoiselle de Scuderi, that, in love, those queens are the happiest who create kingdoms for themselves in undiscovered lands."

"You read romances, Clotilde, so I shall argue with you no longer about the phantom you call love."

Hector took his father on the weak side.

"If I marry Mademioiselle Deshoulieres," he said, "I shall march forward in the glorious career of arms; you have opened the way for me, and I cannot fail of success under the instruction of the brave Deshoulieres, whom Louvois honours with his friendship."

M. de Langevy put an end to the conversation by saying he would consider—which seemed already a great step gained in favour of the lovers.

On the next day's dawn, Hector was at the Cottage of the Vines.

"Alas, alas!" said the old woman, throwing open the window, "the dear young lady is gone!"

"Gone!—you let her go!—but I will find her."

Hector ran to the Chateau d'Urtis. When he entered the park, he felt he was too late, for he saw a carriage hurrying down the opposite avenue. He rang the bell, and was shown in to the Duchess.

"'Tis you, Monsieur de Langevy," she said, sadly; "you come to see Mademoiselle Deshoulieres. Think of her no more, for all is at an end between you. On this earth you will meet no more, for in an hour she will have left the world. She is gone, with her maid, to the Convent of Val ChrÉtien."

"Gone!" cried Hector, nearly fainting.

"She has left a farewell for you in this letter." Hector took the letter which the Duchess held to him, and grew deadly pale as he read these lines:—

"Farewell, then! 'Tis no longer DaphnÈ who writes to you, but a broken-hearted girl, who is to devote her life to praying for the unhappy. I retire from the world with resignation. I make no complaint: my two days' dream of happiness is gone. It was a delicious eclogue—pure, sincere, and tender; but it is past—Adieu!"

Hector kissed the letter, and turned to the Duchess. "Have you a horse, madam?" he said.

"What would you do with it?"

"I would overtake Mademoiselle Deshoulieres."

"You might overtake her, but you couldn't turn her."

"For mercy's sake, madam, a horse! Take pity on my misery."

The Duchess ordered a horse to be saddled, for she had opposed
DaphnÈ's design. "Go," she said, "and Heaven guide you both!"

He started at full gallop: he overtook the carriage in half an hour.

"DaphnÈ, you must go no further!" he said, holding out his hand to the melancholy girl.

"'Tis you!" cried DaphnÈ, with a look of surprise and joy—soon succeeded by deeper grief than ever.

"Yes, 'tis I! I," continued the youth, "who love you as my DaphnÈ, my wife, for my father has listened at last to reason, and agrees to all."

"But I also have listened to reason, and you know where I am going. Leave me: you are rich—I am poor: you love me to-day—who can say if you will love me to-morrow? We began a delightful dream, let us not spoil it by a bad ending. Let our dream continue unbroken in its freshness and romance. Our crooks are both broken; they have killed two of our sheep; they have cut down the willows in the meadow. You perceive that our bright day is over. The lady I saw yesterday should be your wife. Marry her, then; and if ever, in your hours of happiness, you wander on the banks of the Lignon, my shade will appear to you. But then it shall be with a smile!"

"DaphnÈ! DaphnÈ! I love you! I will never leave you! I will live or die with you!"

* * * * *

It was fifty years after that day, that one evening, during a brilliant supper in the Rue St. Dominique, Gentil Bernard, who was the life of the company, announced the death of an original, who had ordered a broken stick to be buried along with him.

"He is Monsieur de Langevy," said Fontenelle. "He was forced against his inclination to marry the dashing Clotilde de Langevy, who eloped so shamefully with one of the Mousquetaires. M. de Langevy had been desperately attached to Bribri Deshoulieres, and this broken stick was a crook they had cut during their courtship on the banks of the Lignon. The Last Shepherd is dead, gentlemen—we must go to his funeral."

"And what became of Bribri Deshoulieres?" asked a lady of the party.

"I have been told she died very young in a convent in the south," replied Fontenelle; "and the odd thing is, that, when they were burying her, they found a crook attached to her horse-hair tunic."

* * * * *

THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

Hark! how the furnace pants and roars!
Hark! how the molten metal pours,
As, bursting from its iron doors,
It glitters in the sun!
Now through the ready mould it flows,
Seething and hissing as it goes,
And filling every crevice up
As the red vintage fills the cup:
Hurra! the work is done!

Unswathe him now. Take off each stay
That binds him to his couch of clay,
And let him struggle into day;
Let chain and pulley run,
With yielding crank and steady rope,
Until he rise from rim to cope,
In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength,
Without a flaw in all his length:
Hurra! the work is done!

The clapper on his giant side
Shall ring no peal for blushing bride,
For birth, or death, or new-year-tide,
Or festival begun!
A nation's joy alone shall be
The signal for his revelry;
And for a nation's woes alone
His melancholy tongue shall moan:
Hurra! the work is done!

Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,
His long loud summons shall we hear,
When statesmen to their country dear
Their mortal race have run;
When mighty monarchs yield their breath,
And patriots sleep the sleep of death,
Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,
And peal a requiem o'er their tomb:
Hurra! the work is done!

Should foemen lift their haughty hand,
And dare invade us where we stand,
Fast by the altars of our land
We'll gather every one;
And he shall ring the loud alarm,
To call the multitudes to arm,
From distant field and forest brown,
And teeming alleys of the town:
Hurra! the work is done!

And as the solemn boom they hear,
Old men shall grasp the idle spear,
Laid by to rust for many a year,
And to the struggle run;
Young men shall leave their toils or books,
Or turn to swords their pruninghooks;
And maids have sweetest smiles for those
Who battle with their country's foes:
Hurra! the work is done!

And when the cannon's iron throat
Shall bear the news to dells remote,
And trumpet-blast resound the note,
That victory is won;
While down the wind the banner drops,
And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops,
His sides shall glow with fierce delight,
And ring glad peals from morn to night;
Hurra! the work is done!

But of such themes forbear to tell.
May never War awake this bell
To sound the tocsin or the knell!
Hush'd be the alarum gun!
Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice
Call up the nations to rejoice
That War his tatter'd flag has furl'd,
And vanish'd from a wiser world!
Hurra! the work is done!

Still may he ring when struggles cease,
Still may he ring for joy's increase,
For progress in the arts of peace,
And friendly trophies won!
When rival nations join their hands,
When plenty crowns the happy lands,
When knowledge gives new blessings birth,
And freedom reigns o'er all the earth!
Hurra! the work is done!

* * * * *