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1874.] worn and saddened with anxiety. He laid his hand upon the rail. "Poor baby!" said he, "it is in the name of maternity!"

After that no week passed by but the young philanthropist returned, darkly studying the bed where chance had laid the baby-bride of Eternity. He was a home-sick Frenchman, and truly few young men but those of the Latin race would be capable of an action generous, yet uncalled-for and slightly mock-heroic. Only briefly a resident of Brussels, and driven thither by a schoolboy's manifestation which had been viewed in a political aspect, he had formed the habit

of promenading in the cemetery. The small creature, hidden in the grave without ever having met his eye, became for him an interest and an object in life. He visited no one else, avoiding even the other refugees tempted by bankuptcy or ill-fortune into the friendly territory. Sick for his native land, he established a parallel between himself and this tiny stranger withered on a foreign soil. It lived in his fancy as a pallid cherub, and alternated with imperfect visions of a graceful lady half seen among the trees. His constant visits were noticed, and with no friendly eyes.

"What would you think, yourself, Flemming?" said Grandstonc, who recited, as we strolled toward the cascades of Allerheiligen, the history from which I have condensed this shadowy little idyl.

"I think he was Quixotic, but a fine fellow."

"They didn't think him very fine in Brussels," said my young countryman. "You see, they don't give a hearty