minded the house and the children, instead of parading like a peacock on the Kauter, chattering to popinjays, one might get a dinner or a supper one could eat."

At this Rosalie flew out in rebellion. "She had been brought up to be waited on. She had never done servants' work, and she was not going to begin."

"And about the Kauter," she said, passionately, "it is too bad. I may speak to Captain Delabre, or I may not; but I go to the Kauter to hear the band play, not to seek him. It is quite different from you, who go out every evening to talk to Eugénie Legros."

Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"Ma foi," he said, wearily, " I am growing tired of this, Rosalie. You are always angry when I go to see Legros; but it has never occurred to me, when I go to smoke a pipe with him, that I might also talk to his daughter. As you suggest it, I will try perhaps. Au revoir. I advise you to cultivate a good temper."

But Louis Scherer did not go as usual to see his old friend. Rosalie's temper had never struck him so unfavorably as it did to-night. She had grumbled incessantly, but she had never spoken so openly. Rosalie had parted angrily from her sister, and had told Clémence that it was her visit that had stirred up strife; and though this was not true in the sense in which the poor jealous girl meant it, it was true that Louis had become more aware of his wife's ungentleness by means of the contrast she offered to Clémence. She had grown into a way of upbraiding her husband for every thing he did, and yet she felt aggrieved by his want of tenderness. Louis Scherer, on this evening, did not even give himself the enjoyment of his pipe. He was deeply, thoroughly unhappy.

"And women's tempers do not improve with age," he thought. "Who could have guessed a sweet, blooming girl like Rosalie change into such fretfulness ?"

He paced up and down beside the canal. Lights in the distance twinkled among the trees, and glittered faintly on the water. Some people had stopped on the nearest bridge, and were laughing merrily.

"Why do I endure this existence ?" he said, moodily. "My cousin Jacques, at Brussels, has often said he would gladly exchange his clerkship for mine. I have

I

enough for myself and for Rosalie. It is hard to leave the children, but it is better to leave them for a time; at least, any thing is better than this constant strife. will not submit to it. I will tell Rosalie my intention; then the next time she finds fault with me, I will write to Jacques."

Louis Scherer was good-tempered, and soft, and weak; but he was selfish. It did not occur to him that in himself lay a means of softening and helping the irritable temper his cold, insouciant manner fretted. He represented to himself that Rosalie was not the girl he had married. He had more to vex him than she had, and yet he never began a quarrel, though she was so vain in manner and extravagant in dress.

"There is no doubt," said Monsieur Scherer, as he walked slowly back to his own door, "that I am an exceedingly illused husband." His next remark was not so true. "It is my own fault, for taking things so quietly. I will end the whole affair."

He went home, and found Rosalie sitting where he had left her. She had really been crying bitterly; but she would not let Louis guess this, and when he announced his determination, she listened in silence. Louis waited, but she did not speak; and he turned away, and went to see Legros.

Rosalie began to cry afresh. There was a tap at the door, and Captain Delabre came in. He was a fine-looking man,. much taller than Louis Scherer, with a bold, swaggering air.

He seemed disturbed when he saw Madame Scherer crying.

"Madame is in sorrow," he said, awkwardly; and he sighed.

It seemed to Rosalie as if she had not fully realized her husband's unkindness till now. Louis, to whom she had given herself and her love, had actually threatened to desert her; and here was this grand gentleman-a grade higher in the army than Louis had ever been-troubled at even the sight of her grief.

Her heart felt bursting; it relieved itself in a fresh flow of sobs and tears.

The captain looked still more tender and sympathetic. He felt that he should like to punch the head of Louis: Scherer.

"Pardon me, madame; may I not ask what is your sorrow ?"

Rosalie's sobs grew less frequent.

"I can not tell you, monsieur." A little quivering sob came; but she wiped her eyes, and felt ashamed of her wet face. "But-but I am the most miserable woman in the world."

"Ma foi, do not say so; it makes me too sad. But can I not make you happier ?"

The Captain's voice was very soothing in its tenderness. "Ah! if Louis would only speak to me like that," she thought. "No, monsieur; no one can make me happy. My husband is angry with me, and I" here her sobs began again. ICaptain Delabre took Madame Scherer's hand.

"The man who can cause grief to so fair and angel-like a being" and then he stopped abruptly. The door had opened, and Louis Scherer stood frowning on the threshold.

Captain Delabre did not let go the hand he held. He rose with admirable coolness.

"Bon soir, madame," he said. "I am so pleased to hear better news of Madame de Vos. Ah! ça, Scherer, where did you spring from? If I were not pressed for time, I would stay and smoke a pipe with you; but, as it is, au revoir;" and he was gone before Scherer could recover himself.

Rosalie's eyes were dry at once. She looked angrily at her husband, but her heart was full of fear.

"So this is the way thou spendest the lonely evenings I hear so much of." Louis had come forward, and he stood facing hist wife.

In reality, this was only the second visit of Captain Delabre; but Rosalie felt too much outraged by her husband's suspicion to answer him quietly. She got up and faced him, pale and trembling with anger.

"It is too much, Louis. For six months, at least, thou hast left me every evening; and am I to have no society or sympathy? Even on the day of the fête, because I spoke to some of my friends, thou wert angry, and I had to get home as I could."

Louis had recovered his self-possession. He spoke in a calm, stern voice, which frightened his wife a little.

"Thou art unwise to recall that day, Rosalie. In all this cold estrangement which has come between us, I have tried

to avoid reproaches, perhaps because I am so weary of thine; but I was not blind at the fête. I saw thy vanity and folly, and not only with Delabre. If I left the fête alone, it was not till thou hadst twice refused to come with me. On that day, Rosalie, the choice was with thee between me and thy vanity; now I choose between thee and peace. It is useless to believe that I am necessary to the happiness of a vain, inconstant woman."

At first she had softened, but the last words brought back all her pride.

"It is too wicked," she said, passionately, speaking more to herself than to her husband. "He is to spend all his time with others, and I am to be mute and meek, and I may not even listen to a sentence from another man. No, indeed, it is true; thou art not necessary to my happiness. I can not well be less happy than I am with thee."

"It is settled, then-we separate;" but Louis lingered, and kept his eyes fixed on the head so scornfully turned away.

Rosalie shrugged her shoulders, and then she went suddenly out of the room, ran upstairs to Madame de Vos's bedchamber, and locked herself in.

VI.

THE fat, rosy-cheeked portress tapped at the door of the nuns' parlor in the convent of the New Jerusalem.

"A note for the Soeur Marie," she said, when she had been bidden to come in.

"For the Sour Marie ?" and then a little chorus of wonder and gentle joking buzzed round the quiet, sweet-faced sister, who sat busily employed in repairing a point-lace petticoat, which would be wanted for the "month of Mary."

"The Mother is in her parlor," said the portress; and she held the door open with deep respect. The Soeur Marie, spite of her humble, retiring nature, had somehow inspired all those with whom she lived with a conviction of her saintliness.

She found the head of the convent reading in a room, whitewashed, like all the rest, but richer than the rest in pictures and statuettes, and other objects of religious art, loving gifts from the pupils educated in the convent. The Superior looked up from her book. She had a calm, peaceful face, not so sweet as that of the Sour Marie, but fuller of intelligence. She took

it.

"Thou must go to her, my daughter." She smiled, but she looked troubled too. "Thou knowest I had always fears about our poor Rosalie. I fear this Monsieur Scherer must be worse than unkind to desert his wife and children."

"Bien, ma mère ;" and then the Sour put on the black veil she wore out of doors, and was soon on her way to the house beside the canal.

In

Rosalie's note to the Sœur Marie had been written impulsively in a moment of agonized remorse at having, as she thought, driven her husband away from her. that moment all her love for Louis had come back. But she had calmed down from this mood; and when Sister Marie kissed her niece tenderly on the forehead, instead of the despairing penitent she expected, she saw Rosalie smiling, and seemingly quite indifferent. But the Sœur had lived too much among young girls to be easily deceived.

"Thou art sorrowful, Rosalie." Her niece blushed under the sweet, direct look of her truthful eyes. "What help can I give thee ?"

Rosalie twisted her fingers together. She felt angry with herself, with the Soeur Marie, and with every one.

"I do not know," she said fretfully. "I hardly know now why I wrote; only it seemed as if I must tell some one of the great wrong done me, and I could not let my father know. He would have said it was my fault, and so would the bonne-maman: it is always my fault with some people."

She tossed her head and laughed. "When thou wrotest to me, it seemed as if thou wert very sorry for something." Here the Sour waited a little. "What has happened, Rosalie, to make thy husband go away ?"

"Thou had best ask him;" but there was such tender pity in the look that met hers that a sudden, unexpected sob came in the girl's throat. Next minute her head was on the sister's shoulder, and she was sobbing as if her heart would break.

"It's not my fault; Louis is so cold, so selfish; he is enough to break any woman's heart with his cool indifferent ways; and then because I let others talk to me and admire me-ever so little-just to sting him into being more loving-he says

The words came out in little broken groups between her deep-drawn sobs, but Sister Marie did not interrupt; she knew that the wound could not close while any poison lingered there.

Yet her pure soul was deeply troubled. She had thought of Rosalie as one of the sinless lambs of the convent flock, and to the Sœur Marie it seemed woeful that her young niece should even wish for the admiration of any man besides her husband. "It is not my fault," said Rosalie again; and the words sounded like a question. The good sister smiled.

"Mon enfant, the hardest thing to bear is our own blame-we are so lazy, we always try to make some one else carry it; and yet, Rosalie," she spoke more gravely, "the nature of love is to bear all for the sake of the one beloved, is it not ?"

Rosalie did not understand, but she looked uneasy.

"Thou seest, my child"-the Sour Marie spoke in a cheerful confiding voice, as if she were only full of quiet gossip-" we who call ourselves Christians have all got to bear our cross; is it not so? We have been shown the way to bear it, and if we will, we may strive to follow that way in every footstep; but it is useless to put our burden on others; each has his own."

Rosalie's head moved restlessly.

"There is no use, my aunt, in telling me all this. When I was at the convent even, I did not care for this sort of talk, and I like it less now. I can't understand it. I am not Clémence. She has no burden, I suppose, or else she would not be so happy. Ah, there are people who have not feeling enough to be unhappy."

She spoke bitterly, and Sister Marie sighed.

"I think it is because Clémence carries her burden willingly that she is able to be so bright and happy. If we think of a hardship, it grows heavier."

"But I do bear-see how much I have borne," Rosalie burst forth impetuously, carried out of her sulky reserve by her desire to justify herself. "Louis has left me evening after evening, and I have not complained."

"But have you been loving to him, Rosalie ?-have you borne with him ?-have you shown him that his happiness is your chief care ?"

Rosalie's blue eyes opened widely and suddenly. That a quiet staid religieuse like her aunt Marie should sit there instructing her in the art of loving her husband, seemed almost laughable.

"Of course I love him"-here she gave a little toss of her frizzled head-" and I should be wanting in self-respect if I were to go on being just the same when he takes no care to make me happy."

Sister Marie smiled.

"If you and Louis saw each other on opposite sides of the canal, you could not clasp hands across it, Rosalie. One of you must cross over the bridge and seek the other, must you not ?"

Rosalie grew red with anger.

"I mean no disrespect, my aunt, but I told the same to Clémence. Single women can not judge for us who are married. Surely thou wouldest not have me follow Louis to Brussels and ask his pardon for what is his own fault ?"

"I would have thee do this: search thine own heart-thou knowest what I mean, Rosalie-and see if all blame rests with Louis; and if it does, remember those who are in the right are more ready to be reconciled than those who are in the wrong. If thou dost not write to thy husband, or go to seek him, I think thou wilt be unhappy, and sinful also."

"It is too bad-too bad!" Rosalie stamped with vexation at the sight of her aunt's serious face. "Every one is so unjust. I am always to blame."

The Sister Marie did not answer; she asked after the children, and then she got up to go away.

"I will come again if thou wishest it, my dear child," she said. "I fear I have not given comfort to-day."

"At least, I am able to make thee sure of one thing," said Rosalie; "I love Louis. I may not have told him so, but I feel it all the same, even when I am the most angry."

Sister Marie smiled again.

"But then how is he to know it? I do not think I should believe in the love of a person who spoke angrily to me. Love must show itself in deeds and words, or it can not live. Good-by, my dear child!"

And then she kissed Rosalie lovingly, and went back to the convent of the New Jerusalem.

"A good thing she has gone. I shall not be in a hurry to send for her again, in

deed;" and Rosalie dressed herself, and went out for a walk.

She could not help seeing that her neighbors stared at her. She saw two women put their heads together and whisper, and then they looked at her with eyes full of condemnation.

"Let them," she said haughtily; and just then she came face to face with Captain Delabre. A burning flush rose in her face, she returned his greeting, and hurried on so fast that he could not find a pretext for speaking.

It was strange. Rosalie knew that her aunt, the Sœur Marie, was only a religieuse -a woman who, as Louis said, lived a shut-up secluded life, which deprived her of all power of judgment, and yet the Soeur's words stuck like burs. Rosalie found herself pondering them even after she went to bed that night. What was it she had said of love being shown in deeds and words?"

"Love, what is this love?" thought Rosalie sleepily. "I love Louis-is not that enough? but what can the Sour mean by showing love ?"

VII.

IT is a pouring wet morning. Louis Scherer sits in a café before his breakfast, listening to the drip, drip, on the verandah outside.

He has as much peace as he desires in his Brussels life, but he is not happy; there is a want at his heart which he never felt in his bachelor days.

He has just been asking himself this question over and over again. Would it not have been better to have spent some of his evenings, at least, with Rosalie?

"The great quarrel between us was about those visits to Legros," he said; " "I might have tried to be more at home. I wonder how she takes my absence;" and then he thought of Captain Delabre, and he looked very angry.

His cousin Jacques had not been so much pleased to see him after all. He had found Louis a temporary employment, but not so congenial a post as that which Monsieur Scherer held at Bruges.

However, it was time to be at office work, and Monsieur Scherer stretched himself, yawned, and departed.

"A lady has been here," the porter said, as he passed into the office; "she seemed

in a great hurry to see Monsieur, and she left this address."

A strange kind of expectation came to Louis Scherer, and he looked at the card and felt checked.

It had simply "Clémence de Vos," and the name of an hotel close by.

Louis's hand shook as he put the card in his pocket. Why had Clémence come? what tidings had she brought? He did not dare to think; he hurried on to the hotel.

Clémence came forward, and she held his hand while she spoke.

"I am come to fetch you home, Louis: I have bad news."

He could not speak-he only looked; there was shame as well as anxiety in his face.

"It is not Rosalie; she has been ill, but she is better. She would have come; but, Louis, she can not leave home. Loulou is ill-very ill!"

"Tell me, he is not dead?" He spoke hoarsely; her pale sorrowful face had filled him with the sudden agony of a new fear. Was this mad freak of his to end in such a grief?

Louis followed mechanically, while Clémence led the way to the station; he even let her take his ticket while he stood absorbed in his fast-growing dread.

Perhaps he had not known before how the child had got twined round his heart, but it seemed as if a mighty cord were tugging there, hurrying him to Bruges.

"Oh, that I had never left him!"

Over and over again came the thought, but no words. He leaned back beside Clémence; he seemed to be listening to all she was saying, but at first he scarcely heard a syllable.

"Rosalie has been very ill," said the soft, tender voice, "oh, so ill, Louis; and they heard of her illness at the convent, and sent for me; she is not strong yet. Louis, do you know why she wanted to get strong ?"

The direct question roused him; he looked at Clemence.

"She wanted to go to you to ask you to come back, Louis; she is very sorry, and she has been ill, I think, from grief."

He did not answer, his thoughts stayed a little while with Rosalie, but the strongest feeling in Louis Scherer's heart was love for his children.

It seemed to him as if the train would never reach Bruges; and when at last they were fairly on their way to his home, his agony grew so strong that he covered his face with his hands.

The door stood open; Clémence went in and beckoned him to follow up the stairs along the gallery into his wife's bedroom. Rosalie was kneeling beside the bed, one arm round her child.

Loulou's eyes were closed, but he opened them and looked at his mother.

He was so pale, so very still, but his father saw the purple rings under the dark widely opened eyes.

They were fixed on his mother.

"Kiss me," the little voice was so faint, so weary, that it sounded far, far off to the two listeners-"and kiss papa when he comes: he will come-dear-dear mamma."

The eyes shut and opened again.

There was a little faint fluttering, and Loulou was far away-away from his mother's tears and his father's agony of sorrow, and yet closely present, praying for them, it may be, in this their sore trial.

Clémence stole softly out of the room, there was silence awhile, and then the man's sorrow burst from him in deep struggling sobs.

Rosalie looked up; she had not realized that her husband had indeed come back; and in the unlooked-for joy her new sorrow was hushed. She went to him, took his hand and kissed it tenderly, then she clung to him.

"Louis, my Louis," she whispered, "forgive me, wilt thou not? I will try and love thee as well as Loulou loved."

VIII.

THE rainy weather has passed away; the sky is bright and clear, with just a few soft gray-tinted clouds to take hardness from its intense blue; but those days of heavy rain have robbed the lilac flowers of their bloom, and made the gueldres rose blossoms hang their head like a drenched mop.

But the birds in the cages sing out loudly that the rain has brought a more genial warmth into the old court-yard; and the vine leaves have also found this out, and