orever. The lithe figure has grown matronly, the childish timidity is
gone; the softened face tells of changes,--changes made by much
happiness; changes also, alas! by trouble.

The dark eyes beam with a deeper tenderness, with a wealth of maternal
devotion, with a world of maternal anxiety. The aurora, with its hazy
glow, has disappeared, and now the sun shines brightly on the early
day; yet through all the love, and all the care, and all the joy of her
pure life, remains that radiant smile, the glorious creation of a
glorious God, that awakens in man one sensation,--tranquillity. O man,
with the joy of your _own_ young love, O woman blessed with a
remembrance of earlier days, is it needful I should say, Madame Althie
Pontalba is the Little Blue Veil?

There were two visitors here an hour ago,--a lady and a gentleman.
Whatever their lack of ostentation, there was an air of distinction
about both that would strike the most casual observer.

The cabriolet was plain, but the horses showed the purest blood, and the
harness and equipments a neatness one would not see in a day's ride. The
gentleman was tall and stately, with a well-shaped aquiline nose, and a
mustache and imperial pointed _a la militaire_; and the lady was petite
and graceful, with a face of rare loveliness. The features of both told
plainly of a great trial bravely endured. The lady entered alone. Her
carriage and demeanor possessed all that quiet elegance which is only
met with in the society of the great; but it was with no courtly speech
she addressed the mistress of this quiet home. To twine her arms
lovingly around that dear form, to draw it close to her bosom, to pour
out, in a voice broken with tears, a burst of gratitude, was the
mission. In moments when hearts are wrung, we do not practice our grand
politeness. A noble life had been saved, a terrible calamity averted.
The polished manner of the _salon_ was dropped. A _wife_ spoke, a
_woman_ listened. The visit was already a long one when Jean Palliot
took charge of the equipage, and, on leaving, it was into _his_ hand the
gentleman thrust a roulette of Napoleons.

"Sir," cried the indignant coachman, "a soldier of the Grand Army is not
a beggar."

"It is not the gold, but the portraits of his commander I give the
soldier of the Grand Army."

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the now affrighted veteran, "it is
Napoleon!--_Vive l'Empereur!_"

* * * * *

Of the history o