nares, into which three of the assassins fell, and, with the singular
implement her fancy had suggested, was the means of their death.
Chance led to the failure of her plan for punishing the last of the
assassins, Lassalle, and to her discovery by her brother.

Immediately after her arrest and examination, on proof of the
condition of her mind, she was conveyed to a private asylum, and
carefully attended to. Fortunately, her madness here assumed a happier
phase. She took great pleasure in seeing her brother, and appeared to
have forgotten that her mother was no more, asking him every day how
soon their mother would come and take her back to the country. But the
trials she had undergone had undermined her health. She sank very
rapidly, and soon breathed her last.

Lacour only remained long enough in the service of the police to
effect the arrest, and witness the condemnation of Lassalle, the last
of the four assassins, who escaped the silver hammer of the maniac
girl, to die by the hand of the executioner.

The sorrows he had experienced would have blighted the heart and
sapped the life of Pierre Lacour, but for the love of one who had
proved true to him through all his trials. Some months after the death
of his sister, he married his faithful Estelle, and retired to a small
and well-stocked farm, for which he was indebted to the generosity of
the emperor; and he lived long enough, if not to forget his sorrows,
at least to find consolation in the bosom of his family.

THE CHRIST CHURCH CHIMES.

It was a cold winter evening. The chill blast came sweeping from the
chain of hills that guard our city on the north, laden with the cold
breath of a thousand leagues of ice and snow. There was a sharp, polar
glitter in the myriad stars that wheeled on their appointed course
through the dark blue heaven, in whose expanse no single cloud was
visible. Howling through the icy streets came the strong, wild north
wind, tearing in its fierce frenzy the sailcloth awnings into tatters,
swinging the public-house signs, and shaking the window shutters, like
a bold burglar bent on the perpetration of crime. Then onward, onward
it sped over the dark steel-colored bay, and out to the wild, wide,
open sea, to do battle with the sails of the stanch barks that were
struggling towards a haven.

But within, the good people of Boston were stoutly waging battle
against the common enemy on this bitter Christmas eve. In some of the
old-f