to the priest that they were quite certain
they had not to deal with some poor, wandering lunatic. But when the
money had been looked at and replaced, then, indeed, they saw the
necessity for prompt action. The cure caught up his hat, and, after
whispering a few words to the women, hurried out of the sacristy.

"He is gone to the police," said one. "Poor child"--laying her hand
caressingly on the girl's damp hair--"what hast thou not passed through!
Mercifully the mass was not over, so we found thee at once. Lie still
and rest. Give me but thy husband's name and address, and in one little
half-hour he shall be by thy side."

And so he was, and then, when she had been examined by the chief of the
police and sobbed out her story all over again, from the shelter of
Paul's broad arms, she felt safe at last. She went peacefully home with
her husband, and after a good night's rest in the little rooms he had
taken for her, she was able to listen calmly when told next day of the
capture of the whole Marac family. They had been taken red-handed in
their guilt, for had not the pedlar's body been found in a disused
cellar under their house?

He was brought to Brussels to be buried, but his name was never known,
and his money was never claimed. Probably, as he had told Babette, he
had been a friendless old man, wandering alone from place to place.

The police were generous. Half his money was given to the poor and the
rest was handed to Babette, and helped to furnish her new home. A simple
stone cross now marks the unknown pedlar's grave: but flowers bloom
there abundantly, and though nameless, he is not forgotten. Many a
prayer is uttered for him both by Babette and her children, for the
memory of that terrible New Year's Eve will never fade from her mind.

* * * * *

_Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew Clark._

BY E. H. PITCAIRN.

[Illustration: SIR ANDREW CLARK.]

With a heartfelt pang, hundreds read in an evening paper on October 20th
of the serious illness of Sir Andrew Clark, so truly spoken of by George
Eliot as "the beloved physician." Only the previous day he had presided
at the Annual Harveian Oration as President of the College of
Physicians.

He had more than one warning by severe attacks of illness, and by the
recurrence of very painful symptoms, that he was over-taxing his
strength, but they were unheeded. A patient once told him he had a
horror of having a fit. "Put