ved.

A few minutes after the commune of Henri Derblay was called up. Henri
himself was sixth on the roll. His father's face had become livid; his
mother hung so heavily on my arm that I fancied at one moment she had
fainted; Louise was as white as a sheet, and her lips, bloodless and
cold, looked blue and frozen as ice.

"Courage, Henri!" I said: "more than forty have drawn, and but one
winning number has come out yet: you will have at least nine good
chances."

"Henri Derblay, of the commune of N----," cried an official, and we
all started as though a gun had been fired. The moment had come: a
minute more and the doubt would become certainty.

"Courage, mother!" whispered the boy, stooping over Madeleine and
repeating in a faltering tone the words I had just spoken to him.

The poor woman was speechless: she tried to smile, but her face
twitched as though in a convulsion. "My child--" she whispered, and
stopped short.

"Henri Derblay!" cried the voice again, and the crowd around repeated
the cry: "Be quick, Derblay, they are waiting for you."

The boy drew his sleeve across his eyes and tottered up to the steps
of the hall. Louise fell down on her knees; Francois and his wife did
the same; for myself, my temples throbbed as in fever, my hands were
dry as wood, and my eyes, fixed on the conscription-urn, seemed
starting out of their sockets.

Henri walked up to the box.

"Allons, mon garcon," said the mayor, "un peu d'aplomb;" and he opened
the lid. Derblay thrust in his hand: his face was turned toward us,
and I could see him draw out his ticket and give it to the captain: a
moment's deep silence.

"No. 3!" roared the officer; and a howl of derision from the mob
covered his words. Henri had become a soldier.

I could not well see what then followed: there was a sudden hush, a
chorus of exclamations, a rush toward the steps of the town-hall, and
then the crowd fell back to make way for two gendarmes who were
carrying a body between them.

"Is he dead?" asked a number of voices.

"Oh no," tittered the two men--"only fainted: he'll soon come round
again." And the mob burst into a laugh.

E.C. GRENVILLE MURRAY.

THE SYMPHONY.

"O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert dead!
The age needs heart--'tis tired of head.
We're all for love," the violins said.
"Of what avail the rigorous tale
Of coin for coin and box for bale?
Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost hope,
Level red gold with b