those mourners made, each weeping over an object apparently equally dear to both. It was religion and its absence-frenzied sorrow, and silent resignation -the madness of proud despair and the tranquility of humble hope. The mother's heart was torn with anguish, but supported by an innate sense of religion, which whispered sweet thoughts of the happiness of her child, and hopes of a future union with her. But the father, his face was of despair, earthly despair-the despair of having lost one most dear, without the chance of ever beholding her again. For him there was no hope in GoD, no belief in the immortality of the soul,-annihilation was written on his brow; and too surely did he seem to think, that all yet remaining of the bright child of his household was mingling for ever in the dust at his feet. The Cross was before him, and he turned not to it for consolation or for prayer: Heaven was above him; he raised not his wistful glances thither: but with the strong grasp of despair he clutched some fading flowers from the grave, and gazed upon it with a fixed and downward look, as if he still sought to pierce through its awful gloom, and there, and there alone, had thought or hoped to behold his child. For this man religion existed not, and God Himself was as nothing in his eyes. The thought made me shudder and I turned aside. A slight shriek woke me from my reverie; I turned again, I beheld him with frantic eagerness trying to tear aside the earth that veiled his child from his sight. The woman had been roused by this action of madness, and with tears entreated him to desist from his purpose. He heeded her not, and was actually making some progress in his mad design, when she saw me and besought me to assist in calming him. I did what I could: it would have been idle to talk to this man of religion, or of its consolations, but I kept my eye upon him, and talked for a long time, quietly endeavouring to lead his mind from the subject that engrossed it; and when he seemed calmer, I advised him to retire, adding that he could return later, when there would be fewer spectators of his sorrow.

"Yes, yes!" sobbed the poor woman. "In the calm evening, dear Pierre ;

that was the hour our Marie loved."

These words seemed to strike him; he rose, and suffered us, for he was utterly exhausted by the violence of his grief, to lead him to his home. Once there, he retired to an inner chamber; his wife would have followed him, but I advised her to suffer his solitary indulgence of his sorrow. She complied, and gently thanked me for my kindness.

"But for your kindness," she said, in a tone of deep feeling, "he would have succeeded in—” The idea was too horrible, and she broke off suddenly. "Oh, Marie! Marie!" she sobbed, in an under tone. "Ah, Madam! did you know the creature we have lost, you would not wonder at his sorrow-nor at his despair," she added, after a moment's pause, "for he is an infidel, without religion-without a GOD. He does not believe he has a soul, or that we shall ever behold our child again."

The poor woman looked upon me now as a friend-as a benefactor who had

saved the remains of her child from profanation; and, by degrees, she told me the little history of her Marie. I cannot give it better than in her own words, as I heard it partly then, and partly at different visits I paid her afterwards.

"I have told you," she began, "that my husband is an infidel; he is also a man of most violent temper. His conversation is enough to contaminate the strongest Christian; you may believe it might destroy the right principles of a child. My poor Marie! My life was passed in seeking to efface the impressions which her soul received, and to undo the harm that bad example and profane conversations were perpetually doing. For a time I hoped I had succeeded; but it pleased God to visit me with sickness which confined me to my bed for years. When I rose from it, I no longer recognized my child; the evil doctrine had entered her soul, it had taken root, and had flourished there. Shall I ever forget the anguish of my heart, when first from the lips of my child I heard the blasphemous doctrines she had learned from her father? It was, indeed, too true. While I was helpless on the bed of pain, that father, who should have shielded his child from the very shadow of sin, had instilled into her's the poisonous creed of his own unhappy soul. She laughed in scorn at the name of GOD, scoffed at religion, mocked at the priests, and never went to church, excepting to meet the gay companions of her folly. She was now surrounded by people well calculated to allure her into vice; she was beautiful, and endowed with a genius, which, if trained in a right direction, had been the pride and glory of her mother; but perverted as it was, I declare to you I would have gladly renounced it to behold her a gibbering idiot at my feet, so that with the change, had come the unstained inocence of an idiot soul. Marie had now attained her fourteenth year; in vain I raised my warning voice. I was a bigot in the eyes of my child, and at last I became passive, content to implore the Mother of GoD, to whom I had devoted Marie at her birth, that the sins of the father might not be visited on the head of the child. My prayer was in merey heard, and gladly do I pass over her youtful errors, to tell you of her prompt repentance and heroic virtues. She conceived a strong desire to go on the stage; this awoke her father from his dream of security. Both were of vehement temper, and I will not describe the scenes that followed. While this contest was at its height, we went to a village fête; it was the first of May, and with the exception of my child, all the girls of the fête belonged to the Association of the Month of Mary. They had been to Communion that morning, and they came to the fête full of innocent and religious joy. Their Lord was reposing in their hearts;-alas! the passions of this world were in the breast of my child: the contrast wrung my soul with anguish. They looked like the brides of Heaven, in their white robes, and whiter wreaths; a little picture of their heavenly mother hung round their necks. Marie, alone, was in the garb of the worldling, was divested of her spotless robe, and, far worse, her baptismal innocence was no longer on her soul. She herself perceived and felt the difference; I saw it in her face that she did. Her com

panions gathered her, and sportively besought her to join their society. She hesitated; I felt as if her salvation depended on her answer. (Oh, Mother! how I besought your aid in that hour!) A sense of guilt seemed to steal over her soul, and something she muttered about being unworthy. They over-ruled her objections,and made a circle round her. One of them took off her own wreath and picture; they knelt, and recited the prayer of the Association. Marie, at first, remained standing, then she hid her face in her hands, and before the prayer was concluded, she had sank on her knees. Thus she received the wreath and picture; I had not seen her in that attitude since the days of her childhood.

"I know not what she thought, or what she felt, but I can imagine; for she suddenly started from her knees, and rushed through the smiling sympathising crowd. Finding, after some time, that she came back no more, I also retired home; and opening the door of her little chamber, beheld her prostrate on her knees; the wreath and picture were placed before her, and the poor child was weeping bitterly. I would have retired, but she heard me, and springing up, she first flung herself into my arms, and then fell prostrate at my feet, imploring my pardon for the past sins of her life. From that hour she was an altered being; the books of poetry and of song, the pictures of actors, and of worldly heroes, by which she had loved to decorate her room, were there no longer; and pious books, and pious pictures, usurped their place. A crucifix was against the wall, and beneath it the withered garland ever retained its place. The picture she always wore upon her bosom. Both have been buried with her. In all ways she sought to repair the past scandal of her life. She publicly implored pardon of her young companions for the example she had given. She would ever walk last in processions as the most unworthy; the first and the last she was ever in the Church; her whole life was divided between prayer and good works. She instructed the ignorant, attended the sick, and more than one poor wretch has owned in his dying hour, that, under God, he owed his hopes of salvation to her charity and zeal. This sudden change of life, at first astonished her father, and then made him furious. He thought she intended to enter a convent, and he was furious at the idea. He overwhelmed her with abuse, with curses, aye, and often, very often, with blows, likewise. She bore all in patience; she who could never before endure an impatient word, now sat like an angel smiling through her tears. And when the storm was over, and his passion had exhausted itself into silence, she would steal to his side and kiss the hand that had been raised against her, and implore his pardon for having given him offence. Her devotion to the Mother of GoD was wonderful. Her face would brighten at the very name of Mary, and she would often speak to her young friends of her Heavenly Mother with a fervour and holy joy, that failed not to draw from every eye those tears the very mention of that sweet name could bring into her own. Most of all, she wished to die in that fair month which is devoted to Mary,—and her wish was in mercy

granted. For months I perceived a change in her appearance, which made me tremble lest I should lose my child at the very moment she became worthy of my love. Consumption took possession of her delicate frame; her colour became deeper and more lovely; her eyes seemed to grow larger and more brilliant; the blue veins of her forehead were more distinctly visible through the transparent brilliancy of her skin. She wasted away, withering like a flower that fades in the sun; and last week she died. Oh! had you seen, as I did, the expression of that angel face, when, for the last time, she placed the Cross to her lips, the withered wreath to her beating heart; had you seen the bright smile with which she gave her soul to her Creator, you would have believed, as firmly as I do, that it winged its way straight to the habitation of the blessed. Before she died she made a moving exhortation to her father: I trust it will take effect at a future time, at present he is in despair."

The sound of a footstep in the next room made her pause in her story, she opened the door, but her husband was no longer there; terror was depicted on the poor woman's face.

"He is not here," she cried, " he will go mad on her grave. Oh! if ever you hope for the mercies of GoD, come with me and seek him there."

We hurried to the cemetery; the sun was just setting, and the last rays of its glory were shining on the grave. The wretched father was on his knees, prostrate among heaps of withering flowers. At that instant a swell of music floated on the air, and the young girls of the Month of Mary, dressed in white, and singing a hymn to the Mother of GoD, approached the grave, scattering fresh white flowers upon it. We fell upon our knees; the father also appeared to listen. He raised his head; the soft sounds seemed to soothe him, and recall his scattered senses. Gradually his tears began to flow, and he turned towards the Cross on the grave. The wife saw it, she rushed through the crowd, and tearing the Cross from her bosom, cried out, with frantic eagernessYou believe that our child is happy;

"Oh, Pierre! I knew it would be so. you believe in the GoD who died on this Cross!"

The man sprang from his knees and stared wildly around him. For a moment, doubt, pride, and shame appeared to shake his soul; then truth and religion triumphed: he caught the Cross, and falling on his knees, he kissed it most devoutly.

"I knew it, I knew it !" cried the wife, flinging her arms tightly round him, "and the prayer of our child is heard already."

The man made no reply, his head sank upon her shoulder, and he burst into a flood of hysterical tears, such as I had never hefore seen from the eyes of a man. With true natural good feeling, the crowd dispersed; none remaining with us but the Cure, who had accidentally been passing by, and remained to give what assistance was in his power. He spoke long, and seriously, with the man, and Pierre submissively promised all the good priest demanded of him; and we left the couple, broken-hearted, yet happy, by the grave of their child.

"And will a conversion, so sudden, be also lasting ?" I asked of the good priest, as we left the cemetery.

"Few conversions are really sudden, though, I admit, there have been wonderful instances of the kind. But this one is not sudden. Atheists seldom really succeed in believing their own doctrine, though pride induces them to call it such. There is almost always an innate conviction of its folly infidelity is, in some, the pride of philosophy,-in others, the cowardice of guilt. Some fancy atheism the proof of a mind soaring above the superstitions of the vulgar, but many more seek to disbelieve, only because they are afraid to believe. Eternity and a just Judge are fearful things to those, who act as if such things were not. But the opinions of this poor Pierre must have long been changing. The conversion of his child, and her happy death, cannot have failed in making an impression, not seen or felt at once, but gradually leading him to reflection and (which is the same thing) to conviction;—for who ever seriously reflected and remained obstinate in unbelief? All his hopes are now directed to meeting his child in heaven; and he will never relapse into infidelity while he believes that she is an Angel there!"

Here we parted, as our roads lay in different directions; and I returned home weaving sweet fancies on the name of Mary.

How sweet, I thought, is the name of Mary! How well does Saint Bernard speak our thoughts, when he says, "Oh, Mary! you cannot be named without inflaming the heart of him, who pronounces your name and loves you." Why is this name ever given to common mortals? It should rather be enshrined in every heart,-it should never be named but with a feeling of reverence, it should never be heard but with an interior motion of respect and love for her who bore it once, and who has thus made it a name holy to every Christian's ear. How venerable is the name of Mary,-how full of fragrance and of beauty! Truly it is an inspiration to all pious thoughts, sweet as the odours of the cedars of Lebanon, fair as the lily, lovely, as the rose, meek and gentle as the lowly violet, bright as the stars that encircle her brow. All virtues, and all memories of virtues, are entwined around it. Chastity, poverty, humility, obedience, charity,-these are the bright attributes of Mary, and these are the memories that encircle her name. The name of Mary has also a mystic signification-meaning, "Star of the Sea." Sea-star, the star of hope, which rose over the troubled and crime, and soothed their billows to a sudden calm.

She was indeed the waters of bitterness

All the nations of the earth were pagans, and the bright days of the religion of Juda had vanished for ever. The days of the patriarchs, of the judges, of the kings, of the prophets, had passed away. The glory was about to depart from Jerusalem, the sceptre of her power had already been wrested from the princes of her people. The Roman cohorts were in her streets, the Roman eagles flew over her towers, a Roman delegate was on her throne, and Roman power controlled her councils. The forms of religion were still preserved;