were these volumes, and more enjoyed by the reader than the listener, who would too often interrupt the "bon Philippe" with a yawn, a request to wind off a skein of silk, or an enquiry as to the time. The eyes of the belle Lescroque never sparkled as when she had, by dropped hints and wishes, induced him to take her to the one theatre the town boastedwhere, decked in every atom of available splendour, the pretty girl, seated as conspicuously as was possible, gave herself up to the double enjoyment of the evening-the seeing and being seen. Truth to say, Philip was totally out of his element in such a scene, it was a sacrifice of his own comfort and wishes; but what would he not have sacrificed, to call up that grateful "Oh! merci, mon cher ami"— and that glance of Chérie's blue eyes? Could he foster tastes or wishes which she did not share? In one solitary particular only did he take a stand not to be shaken. "Eh que c'est drôle !"-cried Chérie one evening "and, mon ami, tu n'aime pas l'eau de vie ?" "No, Chérie, dear one, and I would not for the world you did. Ah! I am sorry to see that on your table. Do put it away, love." "Eh mais!—but why ?"-asked the girl, standing before the table, on which appeared a more luxurious spread than ordinary, in honour of her fête-day. "You do not take the bière, nor no things of the sort ?" "No, love, I'll tell you why, I'll tell you-only put it away, or let me throw it through the window." "Eh! mais, non !-no, no! one might be ill-that would be wicked-" T With a little pout she removed the small bottle of French brandy, which she asserted had been left since her father died, and with which she had intended celebrating her fête. The pout was not put away with the liquor, the pretty trifle, which her young lover presented her with, hardly sufficed to banish it; but when the table was cleared, and Philip had taken possession of his constant seat, holding both her hands in his, looking up into her lovely face-he told her briefly something of his sad history. The blue eyes filled with tears, over the fate of " cette chère petite ;" and as his voice faltered in conclusion, she drew his head towards her, she caressed it with her soft hands, she laid her face to his—“ Mon pauvre ami, my goode, deare, poor Philippe"-she said soothingly. The next moment she was singing, oblivious of her tears and the cause. "Bon, I will sing to you; I will not work to-night; it is my fête. Do you like that ?" Like it! What had he done to deserve it ?—was a thought that often crossed his mind, while his very soul floated in the melody of her sweet voice, or he watched the lithe movements of her graceful form as it flitted hither and thither—so fair a creature given for his own. "What should I do without you, my Chérie? You are my world, my life"-he would say. "You will always love me, beautiful darling that you are: won't you ?" "Oh yese, truly, my Philippe, I will-I shall nevere forget to lufe you-nevere-nevere !" HEAVEN'S OWN GIFT. 275 So sped those precious days—so flew the time; and out of the happy Present he began to shape a Future yet more blissful. He had always worked hard, now he slaved. Overhours, odd jobs-at the houses of those who looked encouragingly upon his efforts-every moment was employed; and every penny hoarded, with the rigour of a miser. Fewer presents found their way to Queen-street now, but Chérie knew his hopes and wishes; she certainly could pardon an omission founded on so good an excuse. Those days of willing labour-those nights of deep repose, or dreams of more than waking happiness! Those visions of a coming time, that should crown with success all his hopes, unite every condition of mortal felicity, and make him of all mankind the happiest ! What now were revenge, retaliation, to him ?— where buried all the gloomy images of the past? Vengeance was not for him, basking in the sunshine of the Creator's best gift. Rather he felt he had not suffered enough to render him deserving of the boon. Sneer, you who remember not seventeen, and its trusting faith. Sneer you, who know not the want, who measure not the value-through all time and age -of one loving heart. Your sneers will not move us, nor our belief harm you. You have your beef and your broadcloth, your blankets and your bargainssufficient to your existence. Golden bridge of hope!-rainbow-hued, gemmed with mercy and with peace, spanning Life's troubled stream, shedding soft light into its gloomiest depths, lifting above shoal and whirlpool the rapt wayfarer, who hears but music in the roaring of the waves, and smiles in the face of the hurtling blasts. "I love you!" marvellous utterance, which-by look, by smile, by tone-hath power to raise that structure, of all that is earthly, nearest Heaven! CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. BROKEN. "Yet those eyes look constant still, But there alas !-he dies !" MOORE. Ir wanted a week of Christmas. The visits at Queen-street had been necessarily broken in upon of late, young Steyne having been recommended by one of the men to assist at some preparations for a public festival in the town. The job was a lucrative one, and after taking counsel with his fair one, who most readily acceded to his proposal, he accepted it. There was another cause too, just now, for his less frequent visits. He had a small project on hand, a secret even from his beloved Chérie, so long as the result was undecided. Prizes had been offered by the Institute in various branches of the studies pursued by the classes. Philip had resolutely worked, and denied himself many an hour of sleep, to qualify himself for entering the lists. Well he knew it would be useless to aspire to any of |