t any longer to myself.'

'A secret, my dear mistress! a secret from me!' exclaimed the faithful
creature in a slightly reproachful tone.

'Yes, dear Margaret, a secret from you; but to be so no longer. No
more henceforth of the toils you have undergone for me; they must be
given up: I cannot do without you. At my age, to be left alone is
intolerable. When you are not near me, I get so lonely, and sometimes
feel quite afraid, I cannot tell of what, but I suppose it is natural
to the old to fear; and often--will you believe it?--I catch myself
weeping like a very child. Ah! when age comes on us, we lose all
strength, all fortitude. But you will not leave me any more? Promise
me, dear Margaret.'

'But in that case what is to become of us?' said Margaret.

'This is the very thing I have to tell. And now listen to me. Take
this key, and in the right-hand drawer of the press you will find the
green casket, where, among my letters and family papers, you will see
a small case, which bring to me.'

Margaret, not a little surprised, did as she was desired. The abbess
gazed on the case for some moments in silence, and Margaret thought
she saw a tear glisten in her eye as she pressed the box to her lips,
and kissed it tenderly and reverentially.

'I have sworn,' she said, 'never to part with it; yet what can I do?
It must be so: it is the will of God.' And with a trembling hand, as
if about to commit sacrilege, she opened the case, and drew from it a
ruby of great brilliancy and beauty. 'You see this jewel?' she said.
'Margaret, it is the glory of my ancient house; it is the last gem in
my coronet, and more precious in my eyes than anything in the world.
My grand-uncle, the noblest of men, the Archbishop of Besancon,
brought it from the East; and when, in guerdon for some-family
service, Louis XIV. founded the Abbey of Vatteville, and made my
grand-aunt the first abbess of the order, he himself adorned her cross
with it. You now know the value of the jewel to me; and though I
cannot tell its marketable value, still, notwithstanding the pressure
of the times, I cannot but think it must bring sufficient to secure
us, for some time at least, from want. "Were I to consider myself
alone, I would starve sooner than touch the sacred deposit; but to
allow you, Margaret, to suffer, and to suffer for me--to take
advantage any longer of your disinterested affection and devoted
fidelity--would be base selfishness. God has at last taugh