to do to noble dames in its lofty windows. The tricoloured flag floats from some of its roofless walls, as it does from the arms of the statue of the City of Strasbourg. How long will that banner overshadow these memories? Ah! who can foretell the future

that awaits our beautiful Paris?

An unusual crowd stood outside our gates; people were idle, our neighbours had lost much of their usual occupation. The Gobelins factory was in ashes; the Jardin des Plantes a wilderness. It was a quiet, stupified-looking crowd, and no one spoke to us. Father was standing at the wicket: all seemed to be on the watch for something. We came on hand-inhand, but our father had no smile for his children. He took our hands gravely, and, with a firm grasp, led us in.

The court did not look like itself; it was tossed, branches were broken from the acacia and strewn about, the magnolia had been dragged from the wall, the flower-bed destroyed, trampled down.

Ah, surely it was blood that I saw under the strewed acacia branches! A sack lay on the bench outside the door, like one of those filled with rubbish which M. Brunel used to have carted away. I scarcely looked at it. But the blood in the court and father's strangeness! what could it mean? There were some persons in the salle-à-manger; as I said before, many

neighbours had fled to our house for refuge, so we did not wonder at this.

Father drew us on with him up the stairs.

'Where is mother?-what is the matter?' I said. 'Hush! my child,—don't speak; mother is up here; come to her,' he replied hoarsely.

She met us at the door of M. Brunel's apartment. I never had seen her look as she did; she was flushed to purple; her eyes were strained and red; she trembled visibly. The arrival of our dying brother had not affected her half so terribly; what could it be?

'But what is it, little mamma?' we cried.

There is a crowd, my children; come in here.' So saying she motioned us into Clémence's bedroom, and locking the door she left us there. We were both breathless and faint from surprise and fear.

'What is it? what has happened?' we said to each other.

'Clémence is still here,' I said; 'see here is her dress, with her white cross; and here is her clean apron and cap on the bed.'

'And here is her New Testament,' said Cerise. 'Ah! she had been reading it, it lies open; and it is at such a lovely chapter, I'll read it, Aurée.'

It was the 7th chapter of the Revelation, and Cerise

read it through. We heard many footsteps and much noise down-stairs; but as the room looked to the back of the house, we could not see anything that went on. But before evening we knew it all, it had to be made known to us. Alas! alas! that I must write it down.

The crowd outside watched for the tombril or funeral cart. Father watched impatiently for our return before it should arrive. The acacia branches were thrown there to conceal blood,-and whose blood? Oh! shall not the God of heaven punish for such sins as these? Henri-yes, Cerise's Henri, and Clémence ;-yes, the good, noble, devoted Sœur de France, the brave nurse-these murderers had shed their innocent blood! It was even so.

Julie, that terrible bonne of ours, had led a band of the troops of Versailles to our house shortly after we had left it that morning. She had accused the Brunels of being Communists; of having helped in the incendiaries. A soldier recognised Clémence as one who had clapped her hands in joy over the flaming Palais de Justice.

It was enough; there was no trial needed-no justice-no mercy. They were dragged from their hiding-place in their father's workshop cellar. They tied Henri to the boughs of the magnolia with its pure flowers for the victim's dying garland. Clémence

would not be tied, nor even blindfolded; she knelt down, crossing her arms over her breast, and faced her enemies. And Frenchmen were found who could present their rifles and draw their triggers and send their balls through such a bosom! So had the Republic rewarded her firm adherents. Oh, my country! what can save you ?

'Nothing but the knowledge of the gospel of peace-nothing but the removal of her blind ignorance by the spreading of the Book of God.'

It is Cerise who has written this last sentence, this answer to my question. She would see what I had written; then, in speechless agony, she wrote her

answer.

For weeks after that unhappy day mother and I nursed our dear sufferer through a nervous fever.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A HAPPY MEETING.

HAVE passed quickly by the harrowing scenes of the last chapter. No one can

wish or expect me to dwell on the agonies of the weeks which followed. Cerise's illness, which was one of great severity and danger, was a mercy to us; for it made her partially insensible to her pain, and it gave mother and all of us full occupation for mind and body. We had poor M. Brunel also to attend to. He was like one paralysed-like a helpless child-whom we had to nurse and comfort. Madame Lacroix had returned to her family near Châlons, but we had the sympathy and help of others, who were, indeed, as our brothers and sisters in the Christian love and kindness shown to us; for in our deep trouble I had gone and asked some of those whose acquaintance we had made in the churches of