s--there sat watching by the bed of a sick
man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and
two pretty children--a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight. The
exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness:
everything announced order and economy, but at the same time great
poverty. A painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean
calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a
high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves,
composed the entire furniture of the room. And yet the man who lay on
that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough,
foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of
our literature. His historical works had won for him a European
celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern
languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to
science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his
time to productive labour.

An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near
the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to
be intended for the use of this poor family, shewed that his wife and
daughter--this gentle child whose large dark eyes were so full of
sadness--endeavoured by the work of their hands to make up for the
unproductiveness of his efforts. The sick man slept, and the mother,
taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her
children into the adjoining room, which served both as antechamber and
dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work
with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter
doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously colouring
some prints destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and
raising her tearful eyes towards heaven, she seemed to be thanking the
Almighty, and in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with
gratitude to Him who had blessed her with such children.

Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a
young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired
for the invalid. 'Just the same, doctor,' said Mme G----.

The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments
attentively on the sleeper, whilst the poor wife fixed her eyes on the
doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate.

'Is there no hope, doctor?' sh