extremity of a short path which led from the more busy part of the village. The field which afforded the site of this cottage was at once so shady and fragrant, that a sweeter retirement can scarcely be imagined. The cottage itself was encircled by a small garden, abounding with rosebushes, the late occupant having been accustomed to make part of her rent by preparing rose-water, which she sent annually to a certain perfumer in Rouen. It was built, as most of the cottages are in Normandy, of timber and thatch, and could boast of four apartments; the chief of which was a hall, paved with glazed red tiles, and hung with an imitation of the tapestry of Gobelin, painted in oil colours. It could boast also of certain pieces of furniture, counted rather costly in that place: namely a table of accazon, surmounted by a slab of grey marble, a looking-glass in a gilt frame, and an ornamented time-piece, which stood upon the mantle-shelf. And although the rest of the furniture of this room was of a more common kind, yet the few sumptuous pieces I have already described were considered sufficient to make the whole apartment as belonging to the habitation of no ordinary persons.

In this agreeable abode the widow and her daughters soon found themselves comfortably settled; while the Bible which the old lady had brought with her from Rouen, and which had been delivered into her hands by her dying husband, furnished Madame de Foix with so many rich sources of consolation, that her grief shortly assumed the softest and most tender character.

It was late in autumn when this family took possession of their cottage; and, during the winter, which proved severe, they spent their time in great privacy, being occupied in making such arrangements as might render their habitation more to their liking.

At length, the frozen chains in which nature had been bound during the wanderings of the sun in our southern hemisphere began to dissolve, when she prepared again to display those innumerable charms with which she takes delight to adorn the haunts of the peasant. The daughters of Madame de Foix had never enjoyed an opportunity of observing the gradual advancement of the spring amidst any thing like natural scenes; they were, therefore, infinitely interested in the opening of every bud and the bursting

forth of every leaf. The early note of the cuckoo filled them with ecstacy; and it was an event of importance to them when they discovered the first lamb of the season following its parent with trembling and uncertain steps.

In the mean time, as the spring advanced, those pleasures which are so eagerly pursued in the open air by the peasantry of both sexes in this country, began again to make their appearance. It was the earliest Sunday in April, a cloudless and beautiful afternoon, when the peasants first repaired to the Guinguette, or public place of dancing in the open air, which, as I before remarked, was in a grove behind the market-house. The cottage of Madame de Foix was not so remote from this place, but that the sound of the violin and the jocund voices of the young peasantry could be heard, sometimes more plainly, and at other times more indistinctly, at the bottom of the garden, as the breeze wafted the sound to and from that quarter. "What is that sound?" said Annette, the younger daughter of Madame de Foix, who was sitting with her sister on a bench in the lower part of the garden.

"It is the sound of the villagers in the Guinguette," said Rosalie.

“And they are dancing!" said Annette, with a deep sigh.

Undoubtedly," replied Rosalie. "Why do you express surprise? Is it not the common custom of the country to repair to the Guinguette on a Sabbath evening?" "Yes," answered Annette, "I know it is the custom, and I cannot see the harm of it."

Rosalie turned her eyes upon her sister with an expression of astonishment, and said, "Annette, have you forgotten our father, and the constant tendency of his instructions?" "No," said Annette: "I doubt not but that my father's memory is as dear to me as it is to you. Nevertheless, I know that his ideas were singular and overstrict, and that no one agreed with him in his religious opinions, which were those of an old man, and of one soured by the world." "O, Annette! Annette!" returned Rosalie, "what man was less sour than our father? Whom have we ever known, whose cheerfulness, like his, knew no change; who smiled even on his death-bed, and on whose countenance rested the sweetest appearance of peace even in his coffin.

It

was my father, Annette, it was my father, who of all the men I have ever known, alone understood the true nature of divine rest. He sought it faithfully on the Sabbath, and it was added to him on every other day of the week; he sought it in life, and it was added to him in death."

As she uttered these words, Rosalie had risen, and stood opposite to her sister; while the glow of her feelings gave a corresponding blush to her charming countenance, which at that moment displayed all that can well be conceived of the beauty of holiness adding its incomparable finish to the charms of youth. She ceased to speak, and, lifting her eyes up, being attracted by some sound without the little hedge which surrounded the garden, she perceived Florimond approaching, a young farmer with whom she had become slightly acquainted, passing and repassing

with her mother to and from the hall.

This young man might best be described in the words of Thomson, the elegant poet of our neighbouring country:

Florimond possessed a large farm-house, and many fertile fields, in a remote part of the parish. He had neither parent, brother, nor sister living, and those families in the neighbourhood who had daughters to dispose of were looking with some anxiety for the moment when he should make the choice of his companion for life.

Such was the young man who stood before Rosalie, and thus addressed her:-"The evening is delightful, and our friends are assembled beneath the shade. May I not request the charming daughter of Madame de Foix to accompany me to the Guinguette? I have long earnestly sought such an occasion as this evening presents; and I should consider myself as being supremely happy, if she would accept my hand in the dance."

Rosalie coloured, and modestly signified, that it was impossible for her to grant his request.

He expressed some surprise, asked if her mother was ill,

so as to require her presence at home, and continued to press his suit with so much vehemence, that she was, at length, compelled, though with some reluctance, to confess that her religious principles did not permit her to join the dance of the villagers on the Sabbath day.

The young man started at this declaration, and asked her wherein her religion differed from that of her country people?

She answered by simply stating the facts which we have before related respecting her father, together with the views which he had acquired from Scripture concerning the nature of the Sabbath and the duties which it required.

Notwithstanding the beautiful simplicity and clearness with which the amiable Rosalie told her story, it was evident that she failed to obtain the concurrence of the young man at that time. Indeed, it was not a favourable moment, humanly speaking, to produce convictions of a serious nature, when the heart was decidedly engaged in the pursuit of pleasure. He heard her out with restrained impatience; and then, with a look which signified, "What a pity it is that such notions should have entered the head of so lovely a young person!" he wished her a good evening, and walked off, in a manner which sufficiently signified his disappointment.

We know not what passed in the mind of Rosalie on this occasion. Suffice it to say, that a deep blush spread itself over her cheek, and a tear started in her eye, when Florimond turned from her with some appearance of disdain; and that such was the abstraction of her mind for some seconds, that she stood immovably fixed to the spot till the intervening branches of a neighbouring thicket concealed the young farmer from her view. But as she never afterwards adverted to the circumstance, and as she recovered her self-possession in a very short space, so as to enter with her usual animation into the religious services of the evening with her mother and the rest of their little family, we may suppose that the struggle she passed through was short, and that she was enabled to obtain a speedy victory over her feelings, through the power of Him who makes his people more than conquerors of that evil nature by which the children of this world are held in perpetual bondage.

It was at a late hour on this very afternoon, and at the moment when some of those who had been amusing themselves at the Guinguette were passing by the cottage of Madame de Foix to return to their homes in distant parts of the parish, that this pious widow entered into a discourse, the subject of which was perhaps suggested by this very circumstance. She spoke of the life of faith, comparing it with that of sense; and, on this occasion, she quoted several passages from the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews:-Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. For by it the elders obtained a good report.—Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens. Women received their dead raised to life again: and others were tortured not accepting deliverance:—they were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins, in mountains, and dens, and caves of the earth; being destitute, afflicted, tormented; (of whom the world was not worthy.) (Heb. xi. 1, 2, 33-35, 37, 38.)

She hence took occasion to remind her daughters, that the children of God are, in all ages, required to prove their faith, and to give evidence of their divine adoption, by rejecting those pleasures of the world and sense, which in any way interfere with their heavenly calling. She also endeavoured to make them understand, that the enjoy ments provided for the children of the Holy One, even in this world, are entirely of a different nature from those which are sought after by the unregenerate, of a nature infinitely more refined and lasting, and such as the world cannot deprive them of. "Let us call to mind, my children," she said, "the evidences of internal peace which your dying father exhibited. Let us remember the many occasions on which, though racked with sore disease, he lifted up his eyes and hands towards heaven, praising God for the happiness he was permitted to enjoy ; a happiness, he said, which passed all understanding, and which was bestowed upon him through the free and unmerited favour of his heavenly Father, with no reference whatever to any