"It shall, my child," said he, touched by the generosity of her
request. "And you, Pauline, shall write the answer--you, my patient,
enduring, and admirable wife! Why is it that I alone know what you
have suffered, forced thus to appreciate in silence your noble
forbearance."

But there was another letter to be read--one from Angela. It contained
an account of Madame Dumesnil's failing strength, and her earnest
desire to embrace her child once more. Jeannette was long since
numbered with the dead; and Angela, whose devotion to her father had
made her refuse every offer of marriage, removed with him to the abode
of her friend's mother, passing her life in dividing her cares.

But a short time elapsed and Pauline, with her husband, was sailing
once more upon the broad bosom of the Atlantic. It was a long and
tedious voyage; but she arrived in time to receive her mother's
blessing, and close her eyes--the reward her filial piety had merited.

Mr. Percy soon followed his aged companion, and Angela returned with
Pauline to France. Here she witnessed, with wonder and delight, the
happiness that, through Pauline's virtue, was not incompatible with so
great a disparity of age, and rejoiced when a few months after their
arrival in Paris, Pauline gave birth to a son and heir. Nothing now
was wanting to complete the domestic enjoyment of the circle gathered
at the Hotel de Vaissiere; and while the same gay crowds graced its
walls, and courted its fair mistress, Pauline never forgot to turn to
her husband as the one whose smile was to her the brightest, whose
praise the most valued, and whose approbation alone she loved and
lived for.

THE HERMIT OF NIAGARA.

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

It was the leafy month of June,
And joyous Nature, all in tune,
With wreathing buds was drest,
As toward the mighty cataract's side
A youthful stranger prest;
His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe,
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw,
While bending o'er its brim,
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide,
And heard its thunder-hymn.

His measured week too quickly fled,
Another, and another sped,
And soon the summer-rose decayed,
The moon of autumn sank in shade,
And winter hurled its dart,
Years filled their circle, brief and fair,
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there,
While deeper round his soul was wove
A mystic chain of fearful love,