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 he still treasures, as the hermit would treasure the relics of a saint. I have beheld them—I have wept over them—I have exclaimed within myself, as I have gazed on these mementos of lost happiness—'Oh, children of the dust! what folly to place your hopes, your wishes, on a world whose changes are so sudden; whose happiness, even while it appears in our view, even while we stretch out our arms to enfold it, flies never to return.'

"Oh, Madeline! as Bertrand has shown me the ornaments designed for his Caroline, and told me their hapless tale, while the big tear of tender recollection and poignant regret has rolled down his cheek, I could only quiet the strong emotions of my heart, by saying, like the holy man himself:

'Father of heaven! thy decrees must surely be for the wisest purposes, else thou wouldst not thus afflict thy creatures; thy will, therefore, not our's, be done.' The sor-