face in which penitence, respect, and affection were well simulated, he exclaimed: 'but thou, dear Julia, art the sovereign of my soul! in whose hand my fate is placed. It is for you to shape my destiny: will you award me love or perdition? At your bidding, no honourable deed shall be too high to mark my obedience.'

'Then return to Marie Buren, and redeem the promise you made her,' exclaimed Julia warmly.

'Nay, sweet Julia, if my priestess bids me turn away from heaven, I am justified in protesting. Hope is the spring whence good and great works flow. Bid me despair, and you bid me seek ruin.'

'Pooh! pooh!' exclaimed the young girl with contempt. 'I am plain Julia Gostillon, who loves frankness and honour. You have neither one nor other, and so I love you not; and again and again I repeat it, I will have nothing more to say to you.'

Though the persevering Victor continued the colloquy, and exerted himself to the utmost, sparing neither vows nor tears, Julia remained firm. At last, seeing that his case was hopeless, he changed his tone into one of sorrowful resignation—declared that honest frankness was a great virtue, and that it was well they had discovered that their affection was not reciprocal; and, in conclusion, begged the wearied Julia to accompany him that night to the château for the last time, for the purpose of explaining to his father, who might otherwise be troubled with suspicions, that their courtship was broken off by mutual consent. After much persuasion, Julia consented, and accordingly paid her last visit to the château that same evening.

A few days after this occurrence, the 15th of June arrived, the day of the fête. On the preceding evening, unknown to the good Julia, a score of light-hearted girls were weaving garlands of flowers, and preparing the crown of roses, in the house of neighbour Morelle; in that of neighbour Bontemps another gay party were industriously ornamenting a wooden throne with coverings, hangings, and cushions of brightest-coloured flowers; and half the people of the hamlet were thinking of Julia, and preparing bouquets, pincushions, caps, and various little trifles, to present to her on the morrow.

In due course the morrow came. The summer sun had not risen many hours, when troops of bright-eyed girls, lustrous with rosy cheeks, braided hair, snow-white gowns, and streaming ribbons, went, tripping beneath the trees, towards the cottage of Widow Gostillon. After them came bands of youths and boys, and anon men and matrons, and the elders of the place, till nearly all the little community was gathered round the house. Early as it was, Julia had risen, and was at work. She had had her own pleasant anticipations of the fête—though she had not heard that a rosière was to be crowned, much less that the honour was in store for herself—and had intended, by commencing some hours earlier than usual, to have done her work so much the sooner, that she might share the pleasures of the festal day. But all thoughts of work were quickly banished by her eager visitors, who, touched even by the fact, that they had found her busy at the time when all were holiday-making, embraced her, praised her, bade her prepare for coronation, wept, laughed, chatted, clapped their hands, jumped, danced, and made such a bustle, that Widow Gostillon, in some consternation, cried out from her chamber to know what was the matter. And the poor widow wept, too, when she discovered what was going on—wept solemnly in thinking over Julia's fidelity to herself, her industry, cleverness, self-denial, sweetness, and, as a proud mother might, of her beauty. And presently the neighbours brought forth the poor invalid in her chair, and placed her on a pleasant spot beneath the trees, whence she might behold the installation. Then Julia retired with those appointed to be her attendants—her tiring-women, the ladies of her court; and when, some time after, she came forth, blushing and trembling, and with happy tears upon her face, wearing her simple holiday dress of white muslin, ornamented, in charming style, with wreaths of roses, the cries of 'Vive la rosière!' might have been heard a long way off.

A little while, and sounds of music and of many voices filled the Grande Allée. The long rows of booths and marquées, dancing-rooms, gymnasiums, toy-tables, bonbon tables, fruit-stalls, &c. &c. were surrounded by busy crowds: all was activity and cheerfulness. In a large open space in the midst, a short distance from the front of the château, the flowery throne, gorgeous in variety and vividness of colours, was set up on a dais on the greensward. The band of celebrants, with Julia and her train in their midst, advanced. Little Cecilia walked by her sister's side, hand in hand, in proud surprise. Before them, an aged peasant marched solemnly, bareheaded save for his silver hair, carrying the crown destined for Julia; and with him, also bareheaded, the curé. A benediction, accompanied by a prayer that the metaphorical ceremony might have some influence in attracting the youthful people present to the practice and pursuit of virtue, having been uttered by the priest, Julia was handed to the throne, and the crown of roses was placed upon her head by the white-haired veteran. A sweet chorus was then chanted—Vive, vive la rosière!—in the melodious verses of which the signification of the ceremonial and the praises of the fête-queen were recited.

Thus far matters had proceeded happily, when the attention of the gay party was attracted by the apparition of a commissaire of police, who, marching up with the aspect of a man having important and disagreeable business to perform, exclaimed: 'Eh, bien! we are merry to-day! Accept my best wishes for your enjoyment. Can you tell me, friends, where I am likely to find a fair demoiselle—one Julia, daughter of M^me Veuve Gostillon?'

'Voila, monsieur!' cried several, much surprised. 'Our rosière is she!'

'Ah, what a fate is mine!' muttered the worthy commissaire, much affected, as he looked at the beautiful and rose-wreathed Julia. 'If I had ten thousand francs, I would give them all to be spared this work: but duty is duty. Courage! all may yet be well. Friends,' continued he, raising his voice, 'excuse me if I interrupt you some few minutes. I would not do it were I not bound to. It will be necessary for M^lle Julia to accompany me to her home. I trust we shall not be absent long.' He raised his cap, offered his arm; and Julia, amazed and frightened, descended from her throne, and conducted him to the cottage.

'Pardon, mademoiselle,' said he, when they stood inside; 'I am instructed to search this house.' Julia, puzzled, confounded, bowed assent.

The commissaire proceeded, with a hasty hand, as if he wished to get the work quickly over, to ransack drawers and boxes. Whenever one or the other had been searched in vain, he clapped his hand to his breast and muttered: 'God be thanked!' and appeared as if his mind were in some measure relieved of a burden which oppressed it. At length he arrived at Julia's chamber—here, as elsewhere, drawers and boxes seemed to present no signs of the object sought for: the thanksgivings of the commissaire were frequent; his cheerfulness appeared to be returning. Presently, however, he proceeded to turn out the contents of Julia's little reticule-basket: first came a pocket-handkerchief, on the corners of which flowers had been wrought by Julia's needle. 'Very pretty!' remarked the commissaire. Then appeared a number of slips of rare plants, recently collected. 'Ah! you are a botanist?' said the commissaire.

'They are from the conservatory of the Comte Meurien, at the château: I meant to have planted them to-day,' said Julia.

'Who gave them to you?'

'M^me Lavine, the femme de chambre.'

'Ah, diable! I hope you have nothing else from that château?'

'I have nothing else,'