I have no doubt sincerely) of the cruel separation from her sister. Touched feelingly upon the happiness of the time I had spent at Oakenshade, and trusted she might venture to claim a week of me at Christmas. She was truly sorry that she had no inducement to hold out beyond the satisfaction of communicating happiness, which she knew was always a paramount feeling with me. She was all alone, and wretched in the long evenings when mamma went to sleep; and reverted plaintively and prettily to the little study and the ghost stories. As for the lilac pocket-book, she had cast up her follies and misdemeanours, and found the total, even before the end of the year, so full of shame and repentance, that she had incontinently thrown it into the fire, trusting to my kindness to give her another with fresh advice. Dear Lady Betty! my resentment was long gone by-I had long felt a conviction that her little follies were blameless and not at all uncommon; and I vow, that had her happiness depended upon me, I would have done anything to insure it. I was obliged, however, to send an excuse for the present, for I had only been married a week.

EXCHANGE IS NO ROBBERY.

I AM but a poor villager. I am sure I don't know how to write my own history. All I can do is to tell you plainly what has happened to me during the last few years, for in the early part of my life I met with little worth mentioning. My father has lived very happily in our large comfortable cottage as long as he can remember: he has

often told me so. Thanks be to God for it, he is very happy now, though old and infirm. I can see the shadow of his well-known form in the sunshine without the door, while I am writing within. He loves to sit for hours on the bench, enjoying the fresh air. My own sweet wife sits beside him. I hear the drone of her spinning-wheel, and the music of her gladsome voice; and I know she is happy. My girl is nursing the baby. My boys are with the flocks green healthy mountains. I am, indeed, a happy

on the

man.

I was but a child when I first went abroad with our flocks and herds. For months I have wandered about all the long day in the summer-time upon the rich green grass, sleeping at night in some rude stone chalet. It is a glorious sight, on a clear summer's day, to look down, from some point still higher, over the mountain pastures, dotted with thousands of cattle; surrounded on all sides by Alps of stupendous height, some of them dazzling the gaze with their fields of trackless snow, others shooting abruptly into the deep blue sky their fantastic peaks of naked granite. From thence the eye might look almost in vain for traces of man and his abiding-places. A few desolate chalets, a single herdsman, or the peep which some little winding valley, far, far beneath, admitted of the trees and corn-fields beyond; these were the only signs of what man calls the world: all besides was free magnificent nature. I cannot find words to describe to you the glorious beauty of our valleys and mountains. I cannot express, I can scarcely understand, the feelings with which they inspired me, even then. But this will not interest you: I know the period of my life of which you wish to hear an account. I was but a tall awkward boy of eighteen when I first met Pauline Charmey. It was in the month

my

of August which I was wont to pass up among the mountain solitudes. There being a jour de fête in the valleys, father sent me down to our village of Contamines, to visit my mother, and pass the day with her. I set off soon after sunrise, in high spirits, carrying a pail of the rich milk from the Alpine pastures, which I knew would be welcome in the valley. Sometimes I stopped to gather the bright flowers which grew in gay luxuriance close to the hard crisp snow spread over the Plan de Mont Jouet, or to look round upon the sun, gradually rising above the mountains towards the east, and flooding the snows I had passed over with streams of golden light. I had nearly gained the foot of that rocky mountain, overhanging the lovely village of Notre Dame de la Gorge, when I overtook two maidens, driving a mule before them down the broad rocky steps which form the road into the Val de Montjoie. One of them I had often seen, but the other turned away her face as I passed them; though I had not gone many paces before I heard her and her companion laughing loudly, and, I was sure, from the pe culiar sound of their laughter, that they were laughing at me. I had not then much idea of my own importance, but I must say that I did not like to be laughed at by two. giddy girls. I began to feel much annoyed, and walked fast, but they seemed to be aware of my feelings, and I could still distinguish the sounds of their provoking mirth. The rocks echoed with their laughter, and the very air seemed in league with them, as it came blowing from the same direction. Very suddenly, however, their mirth ceased, or rather it was turned into cries and shrieks. I looked round, and they instantly began to call and beckon me towards them. I did not hesitate to obey. As I drew near, the girl whom I had known before called out loudly, "Eugene Bertot, run, run, or we shall lose the VOL. IV. PART I.

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mule !" 66 Eugene Bertot," said her companion, catching my name for the first time, and repeating it as familiarly as if she had known me all her life." Eugene Bertot, put down your milk pail, and fly!" I put down the milk-pail, and sprang up with bounding steps to the spot where the girls were standing. The mule was, indeed, becoming very unruly, and well it might. One of its fore feet had slipped into a crevice of the rock, close to the edge of the precipice, and the poor beast had strove in vain to extricate itself till it became terribly frightened and unmanageable. With some difficulty we contrived to save it, but not before I had met with a stout kick on one of my legs, which lamed me for some days. My young companions, when we began again to descend the mountains, perceived my lameness, and I must own that I was delighted to see the stranger come up to me with a look of real concern. "I am sure you are very much hurt," she said with her sweet voice; "how pale you are! lean on me; and here, Marguerite, fasten his milk-pail to the empty panier., Poor fellow,” she added, turning quite round to her companion, "he is really very much hurt." I did not at first accept the offers of my fair friends, but they took the pail by force out of my hands, and seeing that my lameness increased, they insisted on supporting me by turns. I entered our cottage, leaning on the arm of Pauline, and followed by Marguerite, carrying the milk-pail. The two girls scarcely waited to speak to my mother and sister, but kissing their hands gaily to me, left the cottage, arm in arm.

That evening there was a dance in a meadow, belonging to the father of Marguerite, to which we were invited, and though I could not dance, I felt so anxious to see the charming Pauline again, that I accompanied my sister. They had already begun dancing when we arrived; so my

sister sat down beside me under an old spreading chestnuttree. I saw immediately who was the best dancer. I had never seen any one move with the lightness and ease of Pauline Charmey; and though every eye was fixed upon her, she was all careless and unconscious of admiration. She appeared truly modest and unaffected. I always observed that, however wild and regardless of appearances she might be at other times, there was about her whole person and demeanour, when dancing, a quietness and artless propriety perfectly charming.

When the dance was finished, Pauline, followed by her partner, came up to the spot where we were sitting. "How delighted I am to see you both!" she said, her whole countenance brightening as she spoke. "You will dance, of course," she continued, addressing my sister, though you cannot," and she nodded her head at me. "Here," she cried, looking round for the young man she had been dancing with, and who had retreated a few steps while she was speaking with us, "here is a very well behaved young man for your partner," and she presented the youth to my sister. Pauline took her place beside me, and though entreated frequently by the most pleasing and the best looking young men of the neighbourhood to dance with them, she steadily refused, and sat by me during the whole evening. Pauline Charmey was very beautiful. Her dark and laughing eyes were full of expression; her lips were as red as the heart of a rose-bud, continually displaying teeth of the most dazzling whiteness; her hair, of the colour of a ripe hazle-nut, hung with a profusion of thick glossy curls round her face and neck, and almost to her shoulders; her figure was slight and tall, and her feet and hands remarkably well-shaped. But though I was certainly not insensible to the charms of her very lovely person, I was more taken by the spirit that gave life and

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