of his system of belief or church government; never saw glimpses of a better future than the continuance of good preaching and its greater success would bring about. It is satisfactory to take up his "memoirs" and find them as unaffected as himself, and as free from straining ingenuity. Turner, the painter, said the critics discovered beauties in his pictures that he knew nothing about and never intended to produce; and no man would have been more averse than Dr. Raffles to the publication of any book respecting himself conceived in a spirit more ambitious than his own. It was probably this feeling amongst the doctor's intimate friends that led to the work being entrusted to Mr. T. S. Raffles. There is one gentleman, at least, of approved literary and theological fame, to whom the duty might have been committed. But it was probably felt that Mr. Baldwin Brown would have "made too much of it"-not by any means in the way of puffery or eulogy, but by intellectual subtleties and theological generalisations wholly foreign to Dr. Raffles' calibre of mind, though he was too appreciative to underrate his nephew's rare abilities, too Catholic to condemn his broadminded peculiarities of faith, and too affectionate not to rejoice in his great and special usefulness. The Editor of the memoirs is not a professed literary man, but he uses good English, has numerous and well-cultivated tastes, and writes without any temptation to refine upon the plain facts of his father's life or the distinguishing features of his father's character. He would be the first to admit that his cousin might have made a more striking book, while Mr. Baldwin Brown would not be slow to acknowledge that Mr. Raffles has succeeded better than he could have done in keeping within the scope of the venerable divine's ideas. There is one particular in which we especially commend the editor for his truthfulness. Amongst the fashions which were good enough for our fathers, but which we have decisively discarded, is the habit of writing out one's feelings, whether in letters to relations or in the secret pages of a diary. Our good ancestors used to do this with tremendous perseverance, elaboration, and freedom; and the practice was even recommended as excellent training for the mental and moral qualities. Moreover, this is the first age in which to be dégagé has been generally considered a merit; and it was the principle of our ancestors, in this as in every other respect, to be what they considered elegant and becoming, but what we consider prim, formal, and Rosa-Matildaish. Style is of no account in writing now, the maxim of ars celare artem having been carried with a vengeance into literary composition-severe baldness of diction and arrangement having come to be the one merit exacted by many from printed language, and a word of four syllables or Latin origin being sufficient to condemn a writer, in many minds, as a gross pretender and impostor. It is really astonishing how widely this change has extended. Some may be inclined to think that it was only the highly educated of former times who wrote ceremoniously, and that the general roughening of composition and disappearance of style is only apparent, the idea being suggested by the greater prevalence, in this generation, of the practice of writing amongst persons of inferior cultivation. But we could point to such very ordinary productions as Liverpool theatrical reviews, published thirty or forty years ago, and in which there are more marks of care than could be found now-a-days in the whole press of England. Indeed, anyone who happens to have in his possession letters written by his grandfather may see, by glancing at them, how completely in this respect times have changed. Well, Dr. Raffles began to write before the change began, and the consequence is, that his journals and letters, especially in earlier life, were full of demonstrative declarations of feeling, expressed in language which may be called either formal or graceful, accordingly as it is read with sympathetic or hypercritical eyes. There was a good deal of this element in all Dr. Raffles wrote and delivered. While far too noble and dignified to be for a moment what is called "affected," he yet invariably wrote and spoke with much consideration of the manner, as well as the matter, of what he had to say. Those who often heard him preach, know with what elegant and eloquent punctiliousness every portion of the service was, to the very last, performed by him; and they will appreciate, if their feelings harmonise with ours, the character that is preserved in those letters and memoranda which are reproduced in this volume. This point is neither an uninteresting nor an unimportant one. Let us therefore quote, as illustrating, a very characteristic aspect of the departed divine's character, a passage from his diary, which, under other circumstances, would be held too lengthy and too spiritual for our pages. Dr. Raffles is writing in the year 1807, at the very outset of his ministerial career, in his diary, and he thus expatiates on his feelings with reference to his work :— "Oct. 20.-Mr. Suckling, under whose hospitable roof I was kindly entertained during my stay at Dunmow, favoured me with a call this morning. He was, indeed, the bearer of good tidings, since he gave me the pleasing intelligence that one of the sermons I preached during my short visit to that place had been, through the mercy of God, made exceedingly useful to one of his apprentices. O may the impressions made upon the mind of this young man be permanent! If there really is a divine work begun in his soul, may that work be graciously carried on, until at last it is finally completed through the renewing and sanctifying energies of the Holy Spirit! If it please Thee, O indulgent Father! let this be a seal to my early ministry, my joy and crown of rejoicing in the day of the Lord! O! what a delightful, noble employment is that which lies before me, the service of God in the ministry of His Gospel! What can possibly exceed the luxury of doing good? Who does not envy the feelings of the philanthropist, who makes it his business to seek out the suffering sons of wretchedness and want, that he may kindly administer to their temporal necessities, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, sooth the mourner? Such a man has within him a perpetual feast, of the deliciousness of which they can form no adequate idea who never tasted it themselves. But if such be the feelings of the man who only, after all, supplies, and that but in a partial degree, the temporal wants of his fellow-men, how great, how amazing an honour has God conferred upon us in that He makes us instrumental in administering to the far more pressing necessities of the soul, that better, nobler, immortal part, destined to appear at the awful and impartial bar of God, and built for an eternity of happiness or woe! Oh! my God, who is sufficient for these things?' and hast Thou, indeed, called me to this highly exalted though arduous employ? Alas! I shrink back at the thought of my own unworthiness. O! should I ever be suffered to bring reproach upon that glorious cause which I have thus publicly espoused! I shudder at the thought. The stain would be doubly deep in one placed under such peculiar obligations as I am to superior holiness and devotedness to Thee. Even now the eyes of the world are upon me. Lord! grant me Thy upholding, Thy restraining grace; arm me completely for the holy fight. I have, indeed, abundant reason to be thankful for what God has already done on my behalf. When I look back on the way by which He has hitherto led me, I am truly astonished at his goodness. The work is, indeed, arduous; little as I know it, I have found it so, but the Lord has been pleased to afford me every possible encouragement to excite my gratitude and stimulate to zeal and perseverance. Whilst I am thankful for these kind tokens of His favour, may I be kept more humble at His feet, ever remembering that to me no share of praise can possibly belong, since, whilst Paul may plant and Apollos water, the increase, after all, is alone with God!" question worth discussing a moment is, whether young Raffles felt or did not feel what he was writing? We, for our part, have no doubt that he felt it most deeply, and if that was the case we hold it would have been more self-conscious to abstain from writing it because it might seem conceited than to write it in pure sincerity. Perhaps the world in general was far less self-conscious before it knew what self-consciousness was than it is now it reckons self-consciousness among the cardinal sins. Thomas Raffles was from the first as little self-conscious, and as purely single-minded as any man conscientiously ruling his life by religion could be. He set out in life with the one idea of preaching. His parents were religious, and his own religiousness dated very far back into his childhood. It seems probable that religious convictions were amongst the earliest impressions of his infant mind. From his very earliest days, religious sympathies had full possession of his heart. He was placed in an office in Doctors' Commons, but his boyish letters to a boyish friend prove, that even thus early, his mind was entirely occupied with spiritual ideas. Then came his sojourn at Peckham, where he read under the eye of the celebrated Dr. Collyer, and next his residence at Homerton College. Even here his end was so exclusively kept in view that there is some reason to suppose he a little neglected the means. But it was not by elaborate scholarship that Thomas Raffles was to make his mark. Long before he had left the little Dissenting Academy of which the celebrated Pye Smith was Theological Tutor, he was a much sought preacher. Soon after leaving it, he settled at Hammersmith, where his popularity so increased that his London prospects led him to hesitate long when a year or two later he was offered the successorship to Spencer, the young minister who was drowned in the Mersey in the year 1811. He at length accepted it, and entered very soon upon his duties at Liverpool, which were to be prolonged for more than fifty years. Throughout the whole of this time Dr. Raffles was pre-eminently a preacher. During the greater part of it, he preached almost incessantly-preached to an extent which those who only knew him in his more leisurely declining years could hardly realise.. The power and success of his pulpit addresses were the chief pleasure of his life. Preaching was his passion, and his rare talents secured for him the greatest popularity, and consequently most numerous opportunities for fulfilling his mission. Now, there are many who will say this is insufferable cant. To such persons it would be unworthy to defend the character for sincerity of one of the best and truest men that ever breathed. If they go on to say, however, "We used to know Dr. Raffles; have met him often at dinner; found him a thorough gentleman and man of the world; and can't believe he ever wrote such stuff as this," we avail ourselves of the opportunity to point a moral. We say-Dr. Raffles undoubtedly wrote this when a young man, and was in the habit of writing in a similar vein to the end of his days; yet it was Dr. Raffles and no other that you met at dinner, and thought, without mistaking, a gentleman and man of the world. Learn thence that a gentleman and man of the world may be thoroughly and demonstratively religious, even out of the pulpit; that even his most private memoranda may bear to an ordinary eye the aspect of cant; and that, as a matter of common sense, it will be well to remember this bit of experience if ever you should be called upon as one often is, to vote this man or that a hypocrite or a fool because he has given utterance to religious expressions. George Dawson said a very good thing in his lecture on Bunyan, when he exlaimed "I hate cant as much as any man, but of all the cants I have met with the most detestable and sickening is the cant against cant." There are others, however, who, without reference to the religiousness of Dr. Raffles' letters and journals, object to their self-consciousness. Now, an objection to self-consciousness is one of the most self-consciously prized merits of our time. "Self-consciousness" is one of those happily invented expressions without which it is difficult to conceive that this age could have existed. Previous centuries did without it very tolerably. Shakspeare, Milton, Dr. Raffles was one of the last of a school of dissenting Dryden, Pope, Addison and Johnson wrote a piece or preachers whose style would now be deemed old-fashioned, two of English composition, and commented much on but who have not been succeeded by pulpit orators of men and character without seeming at a loss for it. Yet equal importance. The Dissenters of this day are very we feel that the nineteenth century would not have been deficient in good preachers. Perhaps the Church is as ill itself had 'not Mr. Carlyle or Mr. Coleridge, or some off; but in the Church preaching is less missed. Either other metaphysical litterateur, told us what a terribly because of this deficiency, or as an accelerating occasion of unhero-like thing it was to be "self-conscious." In it, nonconformist places of worship are becoming ritualisformer times if a man was vain he was vain; if he was tic in the manner and tone of their services. apprehensive he was apprehensive; if he lacked confidence gationalists and Baptists worship in buildings of gothic he lacked it; but, in these times, let a man confess but mould, every association of which is rather ecclesiastical by ever so fine a crow-quill stroke, that he has thought than conventicular; and it is astonishing to note the as every one thinks about himself, and he is immediately disposition to think more of the service and less of the voted "self-conscious," and therefore altogether the preaching than in the old days. Dissenting chapels used reverse of a hero. A clever London weekly has been to be constructed with no other idea than the commodious very hard upon Dr. Raffles on this score, and espe- accommodation of listeners, and presented internally-as cially in reference to this passage which we have just is still the case, by the by, with many Liverpool churches quoted. "How terribly self-conscious must be the young-no sign, except a pulpit, of devotion to Christian uses. preacher, who, at the commencement of his career, prays It was in such circumstances as these that Mr. Raffles that he may not be puffed up and grow vain by his great began his ministerial career, and what a change he lived success!" May we venture to suggest that the only to see. It would be invidious to name any of the old Congre monarchs of the dissenting pulpit in comparison with any of its present occupants; but, as we write, the recollections of some five or six grave and venerable men rise to our recollections. Men with a sonorous and deliberate delivery, whose sentences were composed in admirable rhythm; whose pulpit manners were full of dignity, solemnity, and fire; whose eloquence rose with the subject in well-calculated measure; and whose effects, though wholly untheatrical, were arranged with the greatest forethought and precision. What a contrast to the young dissenting ministers of these days, who pass their hands through their hair while they "give utterance to a few thoughts," and who think they are intellectual when they are only slipshod! Yet the same sort of contrast is visible in many other professions. Else, whence is the actor whose only notion of acting is to rattle about a stage well-dressed, saying “character bits" characteristically, and to be hail-fellow-well-met with the audience, and who is miserably at sea if you give him ever so small a part in a blank verse play. Is this a member of the same profession which John Kemble graced, and to which Mrs. Siddons devoted so much thought and such a world of natural power? So, again, in law. Where are the Broughams and Scarletts of former years? In Parliament, where, when you have mentioned Lord Derby, Lord Ellenborough, Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Bright and Mr. Horsman (and the latter is very modern in manner), do you find the ancient vigour and dignity of British senatorial eloquence? The grave, sonorous, soberly ornate style of former generations is now as little valued in any of these arenas as Haydon's historical paintings are in the domain of art. Yet this that we have been speaking of was a truly noble school of eloquence, and to have been acknowledged one of the greatest masters of it is high praise indeed, for any minister of any religious body. with its own ideal, in a work far transcending all secular To be sure La Napoule is only a very small place on the coast of Cannes, but it is well known in the whole of Provence. It lies in the shadow of high, evergreen palm trees and dark pomegranates. But this certainly does not establish its fame. People say the finest grapes, the sweetest roses, and the fairest maidens grow there. Since all the girls of La Napoule have been beauties ever since the place existed, the little Mariette must have been beautiful indeed, seeing that history has remarked her. She was called little; yet, she was not less than a girl of about seventeen usually is, whose brow reaches exactly to the lips of a full-grown man. But results, especially in the case of preachers, are evanescent. Even memory can only recall a certain feeling of charm unassociated with any clear recollection of the ideas or the distinctive solid merits of these fine old preachers. Description can do less. Memoirs less still. Yet do we trace with satisfaction and gaze upon with delight such relics as we can find of the great ones who charmed us thus wisely. They may have been little besides preachers, or little may remain of them in any other capacity. Yet we dwell affectionately around the associations connected with their lives. We read with interest of Dr. Raffles' collection of autographs; of his love of poetry; of his absolute liberality of literary feeling exemplified in his admiration of Scott and Byron; in his earnest hero worship shown by the eagerness with which wherever he went, he visited every spot associated with the memory of departed greatness; of his love of scenery, proved by numerous pages of careful and appreciative description; of his natural humour, for which his society was so greatly coveted. And having read all this, we think again of the good old man whose eloquence has so often awed and delighted us. Even these little details have endeared his memory still more to us, and his memory will live with us henceforth more clearly em-seen such mischief, and had not read in Homer how one bodied in a better understood personality. Shall we complain that it is not more so? that there is so little in Dr. Raffles' life-that he was so little else than a great preacher-that he had so little share in strifethat he followed so few secular pursuits so slightly? In a word, shall we complain because Dr. Raffles was Dr. Raffles? For our own poor part that shall be left to others. A life spent laboriously and enthusiastically in accordance The chronicles of La Napoule had good reasons for telling about Mariette, for when she returned with her mother from Avignon, where they had been living some time, she turned it upside down-not exactly the houses, but the people and their heads. Mother Manon would have done better to have remained in Avignon. But she had a little inheritance in La Napoule-a small estate, with a few vineyards, a neat little house under the shadow of a rock, amongst olive trees and African acacias. She felt herself as rich and happy as if she had been Duchess of Provence. It was all the worse for the La Napouleans. They had not fore woman could set all Greece and Asia Minor at variance. HOW THE MISFORTUNE CAME. Mariette had scarely been a fortnight in the little house amongst the olive trees and African acacias, before every youth in La Napoule knew that Mariette lived there, and that there was not a more charming girl in all Provence. When Mariette entered the church, all hearts (namely, those of the youths) forsook Heaven; all fingers wandered amongst the beads of their rosaries. It must have given great offence, especially to the pious; but the young girls were the most offended, and no wonder; for, since Mariette's arrival, more than one lover had become cool; weddings were no longer heard of, only broken engagements. The old people mixed themselves up in the quarrels of their children; disputes were carried from house to house. It was a miserable time. "It is all Mariette's fault," said the pious girls; the mothers said the same, then the fathers joined in, and, at last, the young men also. But Mariette, secure in her innocence, suspected nothing of all the misery, and remained amiable to all. This moved, first, the young men, and they said, "Why distress the innocent, harmless girl-she is without fault?" Then, the fathers said so too, the mothers also agreed, and, at last, the young girls chimed in. ABOUT THE WICKED COLIN. Yet, all men are not gifted with sweet sympathy, but are hard-hearted, like Pharaoh. Young Colin, the richest farmer and landowner in all La Napoule, whose vineyards and olive gardens covered more ground than could be walked over in a day, offered a memorable example of such hard-heartedness. Although old and young had reconciled themselves to Mariette, yet Colin showed no sympathy; if the conversation turned on Mariette, he became dumb; if he met her in the street, he turned red and white with anger. In the evenings, when the young people met on the seashore to amuse themselves, or began to dance or to sing, Colin never failed to be there; but as soon as Mariette appeared, the wicked Colin became silent, and would not sing for all the gold in the world. A pity for his fine voice! Everyone heard him gladly, and his store of songs was inexhaustible. Colin had a roguish look, which the girls fear and yet love; and when he smiled he ought to have been painted. But of course the often-offended Mariette never looked at him, so if he laughed or not was all the same to her. If he began to relate anything she teazed her neighbours, and threw tufts of grass, first at Peter and then at Paul, talked, laughed, and did not listen to Colin. This displeased the proud gentleman. He often broke off suddenly in the middle of his tale, and went away quite sullen. Mariette might have triumphed then, but her heart was too good; and when Colin was silent she was sorry, and when he was sad her laugh forsook her. THE VASE. The Vicar of La Napoule, a grey-headed old man of seventy, possessed all the virtues of a holy man; his only fault was that he was very hard of hearing. He, therefore, preached the more assiduously into the ears of his flock, who heard him attentively. Certainly, he preached almost exclusively from two texts, as if his whole religion lay therein. Either, "Children, love one another," or, "Children, the dispensations of Providence are wonderful." His children loved each other most obediently, and hoped for the dispensations of Heaven. The Napoulites are fond of attending the yearly market at Vence. There are great merry-makings, and though not much money, yet plenty of goods. Mother Manon and Mariette went to the market, and Colin was there too. He bought many sweetmeats and trifles for his young friends, but nothing for Mariette, and yet he was everywhere at her heels. Mother Manon stood still under an arch, and exclaimed, "O! Mariette, look at that beautiful vase! A queen might be proud to touch it with her lips. Look! the edge is glittering gold, and the flowers on it are as beautiful as those in the garden, and yet are only painted. And in the middle, Paradise! Look how the apples on the tree seem to laugh; they make one almost long for some. And Adam cannot resist, as the lovely Eve offers him one." Mariette could not look enough. "If I had such a vase, mother, I should think it far too beautiful to drink out of; I would put my flowers into it, and would constantly look into Paradise. We are in the market of Vence, but when I look at that picture I imagine myself in Paradise.” So said Mariette, and she called all her friends to admire the vase; and at last half the inhabitants of Napoule were assembled round it. Timidly they asked the merchant, "How dear?" And he answered, "One hundred pounds." Then they were all silent, and went away. When none remained standing under the arch, Colin stole in, threw the merchant a hundred pounds, had it folded in cotton wool and packed in a box, and he carried it away. Nobody knew his wicked plan. Near to Napoule, on his way home, he met the Judge's servant, Old John, coming from the field. John was a real good fellow, but uncommonly stupid. "I will give you a dollar, John,” said Colin, “if you will carry this into Mother Manon's house, and leave it there. And if anybody should ask you from whom the box comes, say a stranger gave it to you. But do not tell my name, or I shall never forgive you as long as you live." John promised, took the money and the box, and went towards the little house between the olive trees and the African acacias. THE BEARER. Before he arrived there he met his master, Judge Hautmartin, who said to him, "John, what are you carrying there?" "A box to Mother Manon, but I dare not tell, sir, from whom." "Why not?" "Because Mr. Colin would never forgive me if I did." "It is well that you can be silent. But it is late. I am going to Mother Manon's in the morning, I will bring her the box and not tell that it comes from Colin. It will save you the journey, and do me a good turn." John gave the box to his master, whom he was accus. tomed to obey in all things. The judge took it to his room and examined it with great curiosity. On the lid was written :-"To the amiable and beloved Mariette." Mr. Hautmartin knew that this could only be a hoax from Colin, and that some wicked trick lurked under it, so he opened the box carefully lest a mouse or a rat should be hidden in it. But when he beheld the beautiful vase, his very heart trembled; he saw immediately that Colin intended to bring Mariette into trouble, and perhaps give it out that the vase was a present from some rich lover in the town, or something of that sort, so that all respectable people must shun her. Therefore, Mr. Hautmartin, the judge, to avoid all bad suspicions, determined to give himself out as the donor of the vase. Besides he liked Mariette, and would have been very glad if she would have followed the command of the vicar, "Little children love one another." To be sure Mr. Hautmartin was a little child of fifty years, and Mariette might think the Hautmartin was by no means the provider of these command scarcely applied to him. Now, although Colin was the handsomest man in Napoule, yet Mr. Hautmartin had two advantages over him-great years and a great, great nose. With this elephant nose and the vase, the judge went the next morning to the house amongst the olive trees and the African acacias. "For the beautiful Mariette nothing is too dear," said he. "You admired the vase yesterday at Vence, allow me to place it and my loving heart at your feet." Both Manon and Mariette were delighted and astonished when they saw the vase; Manon's eyes sparkled with delight, but Mariette turned away and said : "I cannot accept either your heart or your vase. Then Mother Manon was angry and cried: "But I accept your heart and vase. Oh! you foolish child! how long will you despise your good fortune? For whom are you waiting? Will some Duke of Provence make you his bride that you despise the Judge of Provence? I know better how to provide for you. Mr. Hautmartin, I consider it an honour to call you son-in-law." Mariette went out and wept bitterly, and hated the beautiful vase with all her heart. The little But the judge spoke wisely, and said: "Mother Manon, do not hurry matters. dove will agree to all when it knows me better. I understand these little creatures, and before three months are over I shall have crept into Mariette's heart." flowers. Who, therefore, could it be? Mariette was amazed at this unexpected discovery, she was (what girls are not usually) very curious; she waited and watched until late at night, she rose earlier, but she discovered nothing; and yet always, twice a week, these wonderful flowers lay near the well, and the paper wound round them. Such a circumstance must make the most indifferent curious. But curiosity brings torment. Sorrow the fourth. MALICE UPON MALICE. One summer night, when it had been unusually warm, Mariette awoke early, and could not go to sleep again. Therefore, she rose as soon as the first blush of morning shone over the sea. She dressed and went to the shore, where she knew a secret place to bathe. In order, however, to come to this secret place, she must go over the rocks behind the house, near the pome granate and palm trees. But this time Mariette could not pass, for under one of the palms lay a tall, slim, young man, in sweet sleep-near him a wreath of the most beautiful flowers. A white paper was also visible around them. How could Mariette pass. She stood and trembled in every limb. She would return to the hut. Scarcely had she taken a few steps than she stood still again, and looked at the sleeper. But she could not recognise his features in the distance. Now or never the secret was to be discovered. But he "That you never will," whispered Mariette, who was appeared to move, so she ran again towards the hut. listening behind the door. In fact a quarter of a year passed over, and Mr. Hautmartin had not crept into Mariette's heart. THE FLOWERS. But during this quarter of a year Mariette had other business. The vase caused her endless sorrow and trouble; and something else besides. For a fortnight the people of Napoule spoke of nothing but the vase. Everybody said it was a present from the judge, and that the marriage would take place soon. Mariette, however, declared to all her friends that she would sooner throw herself on the bosom of the sea than on that of Mr. Hautmartin; but, nevertheless, they teazed her, saying, "Oh! how blessed it must be to repose under the shadow of his nose!" This was sorrow the first. Then Mother Manon had the cruelty to make her carry the vase every morning to the well, and fill it with fresh water and fresh flowers, hoping thereby to accustom Mariette both to the vase and the donor. But she continued to hate both giver and gift, and the work at the well was a very torment to her. Sorrow the second. Then, in the mornings when she came to the well, she found regularly, twice a week, most beautiful flowers, carefully arranged, lying on the rock, just sufficient to fill the vase. A paper was folded round the stalks, with the words "Dear Mariette" written upon it. Now Mariette did not believe in conjurors or fairies, therefore, she was sure the flowers and the sweet words must come from Mr. Hautmartin. She took the flowers, as they were better than field flowers, but she tore the paper into a thousand pieces, and strewed them on the place where she found the flowers. Sorrow the third. At last it came to light, in conversation, that Mr. But Perhaps he was pretending sleep. But who would fly for a mere perhaps? She set out bravely for the palm tree. "What is he to me? My way leads me past him, therefore, sleeping or waking, I shall go past him." she did not pass him, she stood still-she must look the man of flowers right in the face, to make sure of the matter. He slept as if he had had no sleep for a month-and who was it? Well, who else could it be but the archfiend Colin? And so it was he who teased her with these flowers in order to torment her with curiosity. And why? He hated Mariette; he avoided her when he could, and when he could not he annoyed her. Only think! He had never asked her to dance-and she danced exquisitely. She There he lay betrayed, caught. Revenge awoke in Mariette's breast. How could she disgrace him. took the wreath, unloosed it, and strewed the flowers over the sleeper; the paper, with the sweet words written on it, "Dear Mariette," she thrust hastily into her bosom, she might want this sample of his handwriting for future use. Mariette was sly. She would go, but her revenge was not satisfied. She tore the violet ribbon from her hat, bound it gently round his arm, and so tied Colin fast, with three knots, to the tree. When he awoke how astonished he would be! How curiosity would torment him to find out who had played him this trick! He could not possibly guess. All the better. Serve him right. She went slowly back again, often looking round, and at last hurried to Mother Manon, who was calling. But the same day Colin made more mischief. What did he do? He wanted to bring poor Mariette to open shame. Ah! She never thought that her violet ribbon was known in all Napoule ! But Colin knew it too well. He bound it round his hat and wore it before all the world as a trophy. Every one cried, "He has it from Mariette !" (To be continued.) |