ey
were both charming: he in his Scotch costume, and she simply dressed,
with waves of soft brown hair parted on her childish brow, and her face
illuminated by large gray eyes. The breath of fresh flowers mingled with
the fumes of incense that hung in clouds throughout the church. Cecile
presented her bag with a gentle, imploring smile. Jack was very grave.
The little fluttering hand in its thread glove, which he held in his
own, reminded him of a bird that he had once taken from its nest in the
forest. Did he dream that the little girl would be his best friend, and
that, later, all that was most precious in life for him would come from
her?

"They would make a pretty pair," said an old woman, as the children
passed her, and in a lower voice added, "Poor little soul, I hope she
will be more fortunate than her mother!"

Their duties over, Jack returned to his place, still under the influence
of the hand he had so lightly held. But additional pleasure was in
store for him. As they left the church, Madame Rivals approached Madame
D'Argenton and asked permission to take Jack home with her to breakfast.
Charlotte colored high with gratification, straightened the boy's
necktie, and, kissing him, whispered, "Be a good child!"

From this day forth, when Jack was not at home he was at the old
doctor's, who lived in a house in no degree better than that of his
neighbors, and only distinguished from them by the words Night-Bell on a
brass plate above a small button at the side of the door. The walls were
black with age. Here and there, however, an observant eye could see that
some attempts had been made to rejuvenate the mansion; but everything of
that nature had been interrupted on the day of their great sorrow, and
the old people had never had the heart to go on with their improvements
since; an unfinished summer-house seemed to say, with a discouraged air,
"What is the use?" The garden was in a complete state of neglect. Grass
grew over the walks, and weeds choked the fountain. The human beings in
the house had much the same air. From Madame Rivals, who, eight years
after her daughter's death, still wore the deepest of black, down
to little Cecile, whose childish face had a precocious expression of
sorrow, and the old servant who for a quarter of a century had shared
the griefs and sorrows of the family,--all seemed to live in an
atmosphere of eternal regret. The doctor, who kept up a certain
intercourse with the outer world