full of little home scenes, naïve, tender, sweet. This continued for three more months, short but happy, sunny days without clouds; and doubtless the beauty of nature, the enchantment of an innocent affection, the presence of God, formed a paradise around and above them.

"On Holy Thursday," wrote Alexandrine," my mother allowed me to go with my friends, to Tenebræ at the chapel of the palace, to hear the charming music. In spite of my frivolity, the beautiful chapel, the singing, and above all, perhaps, the happiness of praying with Albert, inspired me to such a degree, that I prayed with gentleness and recollection. I was pleased to have the air of a Catholic. M. de La Ferronays took us there, and the return on foot was delightful. It was bright moonlight, and the air was heavy with the perfumes of spring. We went into several churches to pray before the holy tomb. Albert and I threw our selves upon our knees, one beside the other, on the pavement of the church. I remember that I felt an indescribable calm; and I don't know what I asked from God, but I felt that we both implored his protection for us, and that, we felt it realized." The two families separated on the 30th of April. Alex andrine went with her mother to Germany, Madame de Ferronays took her two oldest daughters and Albert to France, and their father placed the two youngest in the convent de la Trinité du Mont at Rome. They left Naples together, but separated at Civita Vecchia. Albert not feeling well, his father kept him with him; leaving him at the inn, while he took his wife and children to the wharf for embarkation. He embraced them, following with his eyes the receding vessel, sending kisses from afar to the fast-fading shadows; and then when the last faint smoke of the steamer disappears in the circle of the horizon, he sighs, oppress ed with a weight to which all are familiar, the heavy weight of loneliness which is inseparable from farewell words to those we love. He returned

silently and sadly to the inn, where a frightful spectacle met his eyes. Albert is dying! They are bleeding him; one moment later he would be dead. It is necessary to read for oneself in his own words, the letters of a father to a mother. A father alone, a stranger in an inn, beside the deathbed of his child. "We were kept in an agony of suspense from three o'clock until seven. At seven the perspiration which, until then, had resisted all our efforts, this welcome perspiration showed itself, and became excessive. O my friend! with what faith, with what fervor of gratitude, I thanked heaven! How everything changes its nature and aspect when we nurse an invalid whom we love! The physicians say that this dreadful crisis will re-establish his health. He is saved! O my God! I thank thee! for to-day I can feel only joy. O all you who are loved by heaven! give thanks for me, and ask God to smite me, but to spare my poor children." During this time Mademoiselle Alopeus had arrived in Rome, and was once more amid the scenes and associates where she first met Albert, when she learned that, instead of returning to France, he was dying at Civita Vecchia. In despair, she wrote to him, and wished to fly to him; she could not do so, and she quitted Rome without seeing him, feeling that he was only more dear to her because she had so nearly lost him. "At Viterbo," she writes, " where we slept, I heard them speak of the death of a young man, whose body was exposed in the neighboring church; this distressed me. I could not bear to hear anything that reminded me that Albert could die.”

EUGENIE TO ALEXANDRINE.

"I pray for you, for you and Pauline, for Pauline and you. I do not mention Albert. Albert is comprehended in you; it is the same prayer. God has loved him; God has spared him. God will bless him, and to bless him is to bless you. With what fervor have I repeated my favorite prayer

that God would take my share of happiness and unite it to yours, that you may have a double portion. This deThis desire realized would insure my bliss." In order that nothing might be want ing in this union of noble souls, Albert, just convalescent, writes to his friends, Montalembert and Rio, letters full of energy and confidence. Calm and serenity succeeded to this anxiety and disquiet. We find the two families united at Rome in September, 1833, where the young sister, Olga, makes her first communion. They then went to Naples, where Albert met them, looking so well that his health had never seemed so perfectly established. It was Alexandrine's health which, at this time, gave them cause for anxiety. Her mind was distressed, though she did her best to conceal her trouble. Her mother had not failed during their travels in Germany to represent to her Albert's bad health and his poverty. Happily he had recovered his health, but he was still poor. I do not know what prudent parents will say, but I agree with Monsieur de la Ferronays, who wrote thus to his wife: "They will be poor, but they will be truly happy. I have neither the courage nor the wish to oppose them; you will not be more cruel than I am." Alexandrine was still suffering. She was lying sadly on the sofa one evening at twilight, when her sister came to her, and told her that her wishes were realized; that she might look upon Albert as her future husband. These joyful tidings worked her cure-happiness is the best medicine. The marriage of Monsieur and Madame Albert de la Ferronays was preceded by that of the Countess d'Alopeus with the Prince Paul Lepoukhyn. Many dreary months of waiting elapsed, but I will not resume the letters at this periodone word is sufficient. Lovers are always permitted to repeat the same things. It was at this time that the sad revolt of M. de Lamennais took place, and Albert causelessly, but nobly anxious, writes thus to his friend: "Let us throw ourselves at the foot of

the cross, which is the foundation of the church, not to undermine her, but to support and defend her; but, above all, I pray you do not commit yourself to M. de Lamennais. You know the happiness which is to be mine in the spring; but I will postpone it and fly to you if you wish me to do so." To these enthusiastic words his friend replied: "There is not a word in your letter which does not accord with all I have thought and desired. I used every effort to induce M. de Lamennais to do as I have done-to bow to the inscrutable dispensations of providence; and humbly, and with docility, to await the will of heaven." But we must leave the two friends to return to the preparations for the marriage, which was at last celebrated on the 17th of April, 1834. In the evening a carriage took Albert and Alexandrine to Castellamare. They were handsome, talented, good, and happy, and they loved.

Blissful dream! which as yet knew no awakening. If we could judge of life by outward appearances, we would be. lieve that these bright anticipations would last for ever. All the family rejoined the newly married couple at Castellamare. "A staircase, embowered by vines and roses, led to the pretty house, the ground floor of which, occupied by Albert and Alexandrine, opened by large windows into the garden. Charles and Emma occupied the first floor; my parents, Fernand, my sisters and myself the second, and at each story these terraces communicated by outside staircases. We were always in communication by these terraces, and were only too glad of an excuse to be together, for never was a family more perfectly, more happily united." The sister who painted this little picture, which seems bathed in sunlight, added to the happiness of all during this pleasant summer, by her marriage; and her younger sister, Eugenie, melancholy and enthusiastic, overpowered with happiness, exclaimed, "Oh! if life is so delightful, what must be the joy of heaven; death is then better than

all!" From Castellamare they went to Sorrento, thence to Rome, then to Pisa, where they spent the winter, and where they were joined by their faithful friend, like themselves young, intelligent, and amiable. "You can imagine," wrote Albert to his sister," that he does not render our life less charming." "He left us in tears," writes Alexandrine. This friend was the Count de Montalembert. From Pisa M. and Madame de la Ferronays embarked for Naples in the month of March, and thence a month later for Malta, en route for the east. This journey was full of amusing and piquant little incidents. Friendship and affection followed them wherever they went. What delight to visit Castellamare, Sorrento, Pisa, Naples, Malta, Smyrna, Constantinople, Odessa, Vienna, Venice, at twenty years of age with hearts full of love! "The dim light of my lamp falling on her dear head-is not this worth all the world?" writes Albert. Alexandrine was filled with enthusiasm on returning to Italy. "O dear Italy !" she cries, "I return to thee for the ninetieth time, and always with renewed pleasure." But alas! this journey, made under these happy auspices, resembled the course of the inhabitant of the seas whom the harpoon of the fisherman has wounded, and who plunges and escapes in agitation and affright, carrying the iron in his side. The health of Albert and the religion of Alexandrine were the two poisons hidden under this smiling exterior. Ten days after his marriage, Albert in putting his handkerchief to his mouth, drew it away covered with blood. At Pisa he was better, at Constantinople quite well, at Rouen he was at death'sdoor. At Venice he was again better, and the husband and wife went together to Lido.

While the wife was disturbed for the health of her husband, he was trembling for more important interests. From the commencement of their love, Albert's most ardent desire had been to see Alexandrine kneel at the same altar, and practice the same faith, as

himself.

This hope seemed sure of realization when they married, for God was ever with them in their happiest hours; since their marriage a feeling of delicacy had kept them silent on the great subjects of conversion. Albert did not wish that Alexandrine should be constrained by her affection for him, and she feared for herself the same powerful influence. She was not willing to sacrifice her reason to the dictates of her heart, and dreading the displeasure of her mother, she dreaded still more the censures of conscience. She desired to submit to conviction, and to resist the pleadings of her love. We recognize here the transparent sincerity of a character of which Albert said truly, "I never saw in her the slightest affectation."

Thus Albert's health and Alexandrine's religion agitated them both with a constant, silent anxiety, which introduces something tragical and sor rowful into their history. Being prevented by his health from devoting himself to the service of his country and his church, Albert had concentrated all his desires on the establishment of truth in the heart dearest to him. Nothing could be more touching than Alexandrine's care for Albert's health. The charming Swede, the graceful daughter of the North, the belle of the Neapolitan fêtes, was transformed into the attentive nurse, hiding her fears, and accepting disagreeable duties. Shut up in a sick room, closing with her delicate fingers the curtains, while Albert was asleep, weeping while he slept, and smiling when he woke.

At this cruel moment hope is absent; sorrow extends still more and more her heavy icy hand over this hitherto so happy pair. Albert, at Venice, became so ill that they sent for his fam ily. They come, they see him, he is dying, but he is consumed with an irresistible desire to revisit his country. They set out in a carriage at short journeys. They leave Venice the 10th of April, and arrive in Paris on the 11th of May. On the 26th Albert is established 13 Rue de Madame, in

5th or 7th of June, she received her irst communion at the same mass where Albert received his last. I will describe this pathetic scene in the words of Alexandrine herself. "Al bert was in bed, he had not been able to rise. I knelt beside him, I took his hand, it was thus that we commenced the mass of Abbé Gerbert. As the mass advanced, Albert made me let fall his hand, this dear hand that was to me so sacred that in the most solemn hour of life I felt that I did not offend God in retaining it. Albert drew it from me, exclaiming, Go, go, belong only to God.' The Abbé Gerbert addressed a few words to me before giving me communion, then he gave it to Albert, then again I took his beloved hand; we expected every moment would be his last." No book could contain, no imagination could depict a scene more tenderly, more profoundly pathetic. At this point we read no more, we weep; it is to thee, O God! that the soul turns, to thee that the soul ascends, to thee who truly and really wert present in his chamber of suffering, walking so to speak on the waves of death, and saying," Fear not, I am with thee." O my Protestant brethren it is to you that this page seems to be dedicated; it is you who have formed the character of this young girl; it is fo you that she owes the habit of living in the presence of God, to you she owes the loyalty, the perfect sincerity of her intentions and the zeal with which she purifies her conscience; at each moment guarding it as a stainless mirror which must ever reflect the image of God. She followed you on the road to Emmaus, where Jesus explained to his disciples the sacred Scriptures; but like the disciples she has thrown down the book, it could not satisfy her; she has followed God to his holy table. By the bed of death, on the edge of the yawning abyss of irreparable separation, hymns and words disappear like useless sounds and barren discourses. Famished for hope and for consolation, the soul has need of stronger food. She must tear

down the veil, and lay hold of God. O my Protestant brethren! read this history of a Christian, who was yours until the moment when stretching out her despairing hands toward nothing. ness, she came to us to be united in God with her dying husband. Read the sad but striking description of the days that follow the first communion. It is to you that I would dedicate the story of this sublime agony, accompanied so tenderly by the church to the last sigh of the passing coul.

On the 27th of June, after two years of married life, at twenty-two years of age, Albert returned to God!

Is not this sad enough? Why should we continue after such scenes? What new spectacle can move us? We have known the bride, the wife. We are going to follow the widow; to follow her from the extremity of human sorrow, to consolation, even to joy and love, reformed again in God. The only dif ference between the widow of India burned in the ashes of her husband and the Christian widow, is that the Christian is consumed more slowly. She waits for death, instead of seeking it; from the first day of bereavement an invisible fire, which nothing can extinguish, saps the spring of her life.

The first moments are the most cruel, but they are not the hardest to endure; when one can say yesterday, the day before yesterday, it is only absence, it is not the abyss of an irreparable adieu.

ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE.

"BOURY, JULY 10, 1836. "Pauline-Pauline! I could have written to you on the 29th of June, had I not been occupied with other things. I repeat, I could have done it. God has given me the power to do and to endure much far beyond all I ever believed possible, for have I not seen the eyes of Albert close in death? have I not felt his hand grow cold for ever? Eugenie will tell you that God has granted me that which I asked of him. He died resting in my arms, my hand in his. Alone, and very quietly, I