tion to his wants made home beautiful to him; and her pitiful compassion day by day rose up between him and Beatrice and kindly veiled from him too embittering a recollection of her.

Visitors thronged daily to greet their return, and especially to be introduced to the goddaughter of Mrs. Leyne, who was reported to have plenty of money young men, professional and non-professional, the rising barrister, the gallant officer, the aristocratic squire. O'Malley Oranmore was received by Madeleine very graciously, and he was keen enough to detect the reason of that. She did not care for him was the meaning of her gracious manner in his eyes. He consoled himself He consoled himself by cursing Noel d'Auvergne, whom he hated as the cause of this change in her demeanour.

Strange, Madeleine thought it, that Noel d'Auvergne came not to see her. The whole first week from the date of their arrival home passed away, and he came not. Each day, when evening drew on, she murmured to herself why he kept away. Each morning there was a radiant expectancy in her delicate face which died out when the afternoon was gone. The truth was, that D'Auvergne was on a visit with friends in the south of Ireland, within view of a pretty arm of the sea, where in boyhood he first saw the ocean, when those restless waves seemed to come from some paradise beyond

the far horizon; a place where he once had many friends, and where he might be said to know

66 every tree

And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,

And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense."

His friend Paul Middleton was the last in Ireland of a numerous family, boys and girls when D’Auvergne was a boy, thoughtful men and women now; some in Australia and America, one in a peaceful Norman château on the banks of the shining Seine, one a toiling sailor, working his way upward to the mastership of a vessel, and one who had been a sailor too, whose bones lay fathoms below in the middle of the Pacific-a wild, generous spirit who met death as the lightning flashed, and the winds made a shroud of the spray around him.

On the first evening of Noel's coming a scene occurred which lingered pleasantly in his memory. His friend, with his young wife, lived in

"a sweet green spot,

Where the lily was blooming fair;

The din of the city disturb'd it not,

But the spirit that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love was there;"

and after a long conversation with them bothshe a girl of twenty, her brown hair bound back from her temples, and in her simple dress exhibiting

no other ornament save the plain gold ring which told the story of her state of life-candles were lit as the twilight deepened, and then the young wife glided from the room. And it was this domestic scene, so eloquent in its simplicity, that left upon him a pleasing impression which he did not forget when his hair was white. The autumn evening, the sound of the sea, the familiar voices which were yet not altogether familiar, the mutual recollections, the sympathy of friendship, the love of the two young people, so happy and satisfied with each other. Noel was not impressionable generally, but the scene of that first evening impressed him deeply; and so he said to Paul Middleton when they were alone, half in envy, and half in admiration.

"It is all her doing," the husband answered.

After some time the young wife moved softly and swiftly into the room, with the air of one who went about doing good. She sat by her husband's side with loving earnestness in her meek face.

CHAPTER VI.

MARY SUFFERS AND SUBMITS.

"She once was a lady of honour and wealth,
Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy revell❜d around her-love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

*

Those feet, that to music could gracefully move,

Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem

Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them;

That voice that once echoed the song of the vain,

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl."

BEATRIC

GERALD GRIFFIN.

EATRICE FITZGERALD, young, beautiful, wealthy, many innocent joys before her, troops of friends ready to receive her amongst themselves, with a true lover longing to take her to his homethese advantages coloured with brilliant hues her

future years and yet-and yet they did not satisfy her! More, more, much more was necessary for her happiness. What more was necessary? Simply to give up her youth, her beauty, her wealth, herself to Him she loved, and to live not by these transitory things but by Him. People pitied her sincerely, from their hearts they pitied her-pitied her loss to society, pitied the throwing away of so much careful education-for they readily perceived that Beatrice Fitzgerald was accomplished, that all those refinements and acquired qualifications which render one conspicuous and desired in society were developed in her by skilful training. The strange thing about their pity was, that had she died they would not have pitied her half so much! It was deemed a sad sacrifice on the part of this rare young maiden to abandon the pleasant haunts of the fashionable world and become a Sister of Charity-in other words, a pauper schoolmistress, whose daily business was to teach the ignorant children of the poor, or else a pauper nurse doing menial service in the wards of some city hospital. But the mistake was to deem this act of hers a sacrifice. It was no sacrifice at all; and Beatrice herself would be the first to stand up and deny that there was any sacrifice whatsoever in it. The real sacrifice now for Beatrice would consist in being compelled to remain in the world. Gradually from childhood upward, year by year, the