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slender as the threads of the gossamer-as if she had
only been restored to him for a while, to save him from
despair, and to teach him to repent.”
To lead him too, it is to be inferred, onwards to the
bosom of the true and "eternal church." And thus
the work closes, leaving the sister-heroines each
happy in her own way-fond hearts watching
them-deep love attending them-" exemplary
in their lives, and united in their affections."
As Lady Georgiana Fullerton is probably con-

she vindicated, as far as was possible, the memory | of him to whose religious opinions all their miseries might be traced. In her hands her father had, at her entreaty, placed a codicil virtually revoking his will, and leaving his whole property to his son, if it should happen that Edmund had married a Catholic previous to the solemn warnings and denunciation which had been sent to him in Italy. Thus all comes right at last, and Ginevra issues from the furnace, like gold seven times refined. And soon there is a merry wed-sidered the most distinguished female writer of ding at Grantley Manor. Margaret, the thrice happy Margaret, has given her heart and her hand to her "Old Walter," and her stern father had, by this time, learned fondly to appreciate the priceless gift which he joyfully bestowed upon his

old friend.

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If her hopes and joys were of a more exalted nature, and her aspirations of a higher order than those of her sister, was it strange that it should be so? Had not life shown her depths of misery which inexperience cannot fathom? Had not her spirit hovered on the confines of eternity, and almost taken its wing for the mansions of heaven? She returned to life-to its duties and its blessings; no smile was sweeter than hers, no serenity deeper, and no tenderness more touching; but a seal had been set on her brow, which nothing could efface. Death had been near her, and had left a message for her soul, and the melodies of earth could not overpower that whisper. This was Edmund Neville's trial in the midst of happiness. He ever felt as if an angel was lingering at his side-as if the links that bound her to life were

her party-a party which has lately made large,
and often skilful, use of fiction and poetry to
spread and inculcate its tenets, notions, and nos-
trums-we have deemed her new romance de-
serving an extended notice; and now our readers
must be nearly as well qualified to judge of its
various merits as ourselves, who have patiently
gone through its length and depth.
rary work, it will be considered not superior to
her first production; though the spirit and ten-
dency, if not the object of both the stories, are
the very same.

As a lite

Along, however, with its strong catholicism, "Grantley Manor" exhibits a more enlarged catholicity, howsoever deeply alloyed with what protestants regard as puerility, superstition, and will-worship-evident in every page. If any

permanent moral lesson is to be drawn from the work, it must be one of warning against the danger and probable misery to be apprehended by a Roman Catholic lady, rigid in her adherence to the mint and cumin, as well as to the weightier matters of her creed, who shall rashly marry a Protestant, or connect herself closely with those "who do not bow at the altar," which from infancy she has been taught, unquestioning, to revere, as the chosen and only shrine of the "pure" and "eternal faith;" and the only safe and "true rule" of life, in all its bearings. We presume that the lesson may be useful, although

the circumstances be reversed.

THE LEGEND OF CHAMBERCOMBE.

Within a mile of Ilfracombe, North Devon, lies in a deep dell the pretty hamlet of Chambercombe, near which, falling into decay, may be seen the house of which the following sonnets tell.

I.

In a deep dingle, passing Larkstone hill,
And on to Helesbro's difficult ascent,
With the gruff gurgle of a hasty rill
Sounding within my ears, as on I went,
I came upon a lone, deserted mansion,
Ilid among unpruned boughs-and with a scent
Of damp and rotten leaves. The drear expansion
Which Ruin makes, invaded all the ground,
Destroying window-frames and palings.
Lay bricks and broken panes of window-glass;
Whilst here and there the mischievous had found
A cranny for an arm or leg to pass :—
"What is that place?" I asked when I got home-
"It is the Haunted House of Chambercombe !''

Round

II.

In sooth it is a dark tradition, told

And credited by cottage dame and clown;
And briefly shall the tale be noted down
For thee, dear reader! Heiress of much gold,
A girl of weakly wit, but hale and bold
Of health, two brothers fierce did own;
Who for her riches envied her with cold
And desperate hate-for they could claim no hold
Upon that wealth, which, to possess, they plann'd
A darksome deed-a deed of guilt and gloom.
The wretched maiden, by her brothers' hand,
Fell, in her midnight sleep at Chambercombe;
The murderers perish'd soon-the gold forwhich theypanted
Enrich'd them not-and lo! the house is haunted!

CALDER CAMPBELL.

PAULINE BARTENAU, THE HUGUENOT'S DAUGHTER. AN OWER-TRUE POITEVIN TRADITION.

CHAPTER I.

"Locus in Quo."

In the west of "La belle France" is a department called "Les deux Sevres," from two rivers of the same name which run through its territory; and the capital of this department is the thriving little town of Niort. Since the days of Charles VIII. and the Maid of Orleans, this district has not been so much frequented by our ubiquitous countrymen as most other parts of France; and a residence on the banks of the "Sevre Niortaise❞—as the southern of the two streams is named, to distinguish it from its sister river-might be confidently recommended to some of those English who may be frequently heard lamenting the difficulty of finding a spot where they may live unmolested by the sight or sound of others of the same species. It is a strange subject of complaint this; though all who have rambled on the Continent must have heard it from the lips of sundry of their wandering countrymen. Little complimentary, too, one would suppose it, when addressed to an Englishman, yet shall you hear it at Pau, at Carlsbad, at Sorrents, under the Cedars of Lebanon, or at Tadmor in the desert. Mrs. Smith confiding to Mrs. Thomson her distresses at being unable to discover a spot uninfested with English! and that with an amount of self-complacency indicating the conviction entertained by Mrs. Smith that she was hereby clearly manifesting her own superiority to all the common and unclean herd of her compatriots. To the French this sort of absurdity is especially unintelligible, except on hypotheses far from advantageous to the English-hating Englishman in question. One of the objections to the solitary system of imprisonment is the great quantity of prison-room it requires. And a great deal of the world it takes to find sufficiently isolated lodgings for the fancies of our dear anti-gregarious countrymen. But there is still accommodation, as has been said, for one or two in the department of "Les deux Sevres."

A pleasant country, too, is this district of the ancient province of Poitou, undulating, green, well wooded, well watered, and rich enough in deep verdure and silvan beauty to remind the traveller of the prettiest parts of Nottinghamshire, rather than of the brown monotony of the greater part of France. And Niort, the capital of this pleasant country, is for a French town an active, thriving, commercial little city. In the old times, when Poitiers was the capital of the province of Poitou, and before Niort could in any degree vie with it in size and importance, the two towns were strongly contrasted in their nature and appearance. Proud Poitiers was a true medieval city, a legitimate, though the youngest, child of the feudal system. Its cathedral, its parliament, its university, its long and intricately tortuous streets, compelled to twist round many a sharp corner by the huge town mansions of the Poitevin noblesse, and forced between long lines of dead wall by their large gardens, all contributed to impress upon it the genuine stamp of an old provincial capital of the first class. Niort, on the contrary, was a young commercial upstart. The absence

of cathedral, parliament, or university, left the rule and management of the town to the wealthy and industrious burghers, whose thriving activity had raised it to be, in population at least, a rival of the capital. There, streets, straight though narrow, and long rows of moderately sized houses, uninterrupted by large breaks of silent gardens, intimated the subordination of private to the public importance.

The moral contrast between the two towns was not less striking than their physical difference. Law, physic, and divinity reigned in Poitiers. It was when the noblesse de l'épee met the "noblesse de robe" within the walls of their own parliament towns, that the latter were most able to compete with and make a stand against the jealousy and overbearing pretensions of the more ancient and more barbarous sword-nobles. So law and mother Church divided Poitiers pretty equally and exclusively between them. Both these old ladies-with all reverence and veneration be it said—are known to be of somewhat sedentary habits, prone to maintain themselves and all other things "in statu quo," great worshippers of constituted authorities and routine, and little given to movement or mutation of any sort. It is clear, therefore, that Poitiers was no desirable abiding place for new-fangled notions or heresies in religion or politics. Such things, alas! will arise from time to time in the best regulated states; and even Louis Quatorze, grand monarque as he was, could not entirely keep men from thinking.

When, therefore, new opinions kept springing up with a perversity which has often been seen to reward the efforts of paternal governments-like quickset hedges, all the more stiff and thick the more often they were cut down-the commercial little town of Niort, unprotected by those influences which have been described as spreading their peaceful wings over dreamy old Poitiers, became much infested by Huguenots and Calvinists. The town, it must be owned, did not seem to flourish the less on this account.

Such was the state of things in Niort towards the middle of the seventeenth century-the period to which our historiette relates. So that when the king's immoral life drove him to the necessity of making up for it by persecuting the Huguenots-the mode of pleasing God which was least personally troublesome to himself—and the prison of Niort, like that of many other towns, was turned into an instrument of conversion, the inhabitants of that city, Catholic as well as Calvinist, disapproved of the measure.

CHAPTER II.

THE HUGUENOT AND THE HUGUENOT'S WIFE.

In the year 1635 the prison of Niort, that same gloomy looking old castellated tower, which may still be seen frowning on the town from the top of the little eminence which constitutes the most commanding spot within the walls, contained more than one prisoner for conscience sake, victims of the king's piety.

pride in treating with kindness, and even frequently with familiarity, those who were sufficiently beneath them to be their creatures and dependants. But Jacques Bartenau was a rich merchant of Niort. Two prides would, therefore, have had to be overcome and made to bend, before any association could have taken place between him and the violent sword-noble. And both these prides were of the stiffest.

One group, among those who were at that time in- | for the noblesse of France found nothing galling to their mates of the prison, have found a place in the partial pages of general history. The Sieur D'Aubigné and his wife were among the Huguenots confined there on account of their faith; a fact which the world would have long since forgotten, had it not happened that within those cheerless walls on the 27th of November in the above-mentioned year, that lady gave birth to a daughter, who, after fifty of a life comprising more strange vicissitudes than the boldest novelist would dare to relate as probable, became Nor would their community of feeling on religious matDe Maintenon, and wife of Louis XIV. Yes, reader!ters have helped in any material degree, as might at first strange as it seems, the infant, born of those parents sight be supposed, to draw them together. The then imprisoned for their Calvinist creed, was she who Huguenots were a large and mixed body; and their dealt in after years the deadliest blow, almost a death- | numbers were augmented by proselytes from all ranks of blow, to Protestantism in France, by causing, on the 22d society, whose motives for dissenting from the state reliof October, 1685, the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. gion were by no means all the same. The heart A prison cell is a sad scene for the bringing into life of of the body were strict, rigid Calvinists. These were a new creature, innocent as yet of any part of all the sin for the most part bourgeois; and such was Jacques and folly that have built and peopled prisons! But Bartenau. Then there were ambitious, scheming nobles Madame d'Aubigné was, at least, not without such com- who saw in this stern, resolute, and disaffected body, fort as sympathy, and the companionship of one simi- an instrument which might be used with advantage larly tried, could afford her. Much about the same time, for their own purposes. Court disappointments, disand within the same dreary precincts, another birth took | content, dislike of the existing order of things, reckless place at Niort. Jacques Bartenau and his wife Louise restlessness, and love of movement, drew to the were prisoners there for the same cause as the Sieur Huguenot ranks a large and loose crowd of straggling D'Aubigné and his lady. They, too, were Huguenots, and partisans, the effect of whose championship was to weaken had been condemned to conversion by the convincing and not strengthen the cause they thought fit to espouse. process of imprisonment, as expiatory victims for the It did not necessarily follow, then, from the fact of both rood of the monarch's soul. being Huguenots, that much community of sentiment should

truth it is not often that men, so widely differing in all
respects as did these two co-religionists, are found conducted
by fate into circumstances so precisely parallel. The Sieur
D'Aubigné was, it seems, a violent, hot-headed, ill-con-
ducted man, ever scrambling out of one trouble to fall
into another, unfit to be trusted to find his own way
through life, and much less to guide his wife and children
on theirs. Jacques Bartenau, the Niort merchant, was a
very different sort of man. He was, at the period of his
daughter's birth in 1635, in the very pride of middle
life, being then 38 years old. He was a remarkably
handsome man; though few persons, perhaps, would have
deemed his features prepossessing.
The cold, though

Oh! but it takes a great deal to bring about the salva-exist between the two prisoners and their wives. And in tion of a monarch. Hear the opinion, reader, of the pious Bourdaloue on this point. The passage may be found at the end of his first Lent sermon. It is conclusive on the subject. "The ordinary effect of grace," says this eloquent Jesuit, preaching before Louis XIV., "is the salvation of common Christians. The salvation of the great is its chef-d'œuvre. A king's salvation is a prodigy of grace; and that of the greatest of earth's kings a miracle thereof." It cannot be doubted that this good servant of God and the king meant his words to be highly complimentary to that master whom he feared the most, and most strove to please. But it must be confessed that the sly Jesuit's climax seems to imply a singularly double-edged compliment. And truly, perhaps all things considered, many persons may be inclined to think the above words much about as veracious as any.

Well! Louise Bartenau, as has been said, became a mother in the prison. Her child was also a girl; and the same dark walls which met the first opening gaze of Françoise D'Aubigné, welcomed also to her earthly pilgrimage the other Poitevin Huguenot's daughter, Pauline Bartenau.

own.

large and well-opened grey eye, expressed too much self-concentration, lighted up too rarely with sympathetic contagion at another's mirth-too rarely melted in tenderness for the woes of others, ay, or even for his The thin and habitually closed lips prevented the otherwise beautifully formed mouth from producing the pleasing impression, which it would have else not failed to do. The well moulded and strongly pronounced chin indicated, in connexion with the other features which have been noticed, too much firmness, too small a seasonMisfortune, like its powerful despot cousin, Death, is a ing of human weakness, for amiability. A high and wellgreat leveller. And the two young mothers found com- outlined Roman nose completed the severe and stern fort and consolation in the presence and companionship character of the countenance. The coal black hair, which of each other. In other circumstances there would have had begun to retreat from the large and lofty forehead, been little in common between them. The D'Aubignés | was already mingled with grey. Iis person, both physiwere noble-the Bartenaus plebeian. Scarcely any cally and in its moral expression, corresponded well with events less cogent than those which had thus thrown the features of his face. Tall, perfectly well-formed, and them together could have brought them into companion- even commanding as was the handsome figure of the ship. Had the Bartenaus been more lowly placed in the Niortais trader, there was a rigidity about it, an unbendsocial scale than they were, sympathy and kindness be-ing, self-sustained erectness, and an uncompromising detween the two mothers might have been less improbable; termination, expressed even in his measured gait, which

was more calculated to inspire fear than love in those very perfect beauty beneath the vivifying and munificent connected with him by family ties. skies of Spain; and all Europe has heard again and again, in prose and in verse, of the girls of Cadiz. But the dark richness of the crimson blood that glowed through the clear brown skin of the little Zara-the exhaustless treasures of that long, long eye which anon dazzled with its

In the case of Jacques Bartenau, the outward man was a very accurate exponent of the disposition and character. Spotless probity in all the dealings and transactions of his life, unbending inflexibility of purpose, unwearying industry, unshakeable and overweening self-lightning flash, and anon welled forth from its still depths, confidence, a severity of judgment unmitigated by any comprehension of human frailty or pity for its weakness —these were the leading virtues and vices of his strongly defined and consistent character.

Such is he, who now at the moment of our reader's introduction to him, is holding in his arms, and gazing at the features of his first-born child-the prison-born infant, whose subsequent fortunes, still remembered in the traditional lore of her native town, it is the business of these pages to relate.

"I had hoped," said the father, turning to another man about his own age, whose dress indicated him to be a Huguenot priest, and who was standing near him, "I had hoped to have been the father of a boy, who in the troublous times that but too evidently are coming upon us, might have helped the good cause with heart and with hand. There will be days of wailing and nights of terror for the women of our faith, or I have no skill in reading the portents of the times."

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'Bless the Lord! my friend, for the child which he has given you," returned the divine; "bless the Lord! and, by his blessing, our women, ay, and our children, shall so fight the good fight, as to purify the rottenness of this darkened land, and change the louring blackness of its future to a bright light. Let us welcome the babe with prayer."

The father and the preacher knelt together, and the prayer pronounced by the latter was long, and strongly marked by the peculiar doctrines of the more rigid Calvinists. The petition was listened to by Jacques Bartenau without the smallest symptom of impatience; and when it was concluded, and not till then, he turned to go and visit the mother of his child, a mother now for the first time.

And this mother, this wife of the stern Huguenot, for whose faith's-sake her first-born child first drew the breath of life within a prison wall, was she a helpmate meet for the zealous partizan, the severe man, to whose fate she had indissolubly linked her own? Louise Bartenau, the mother of the Huguenot's daughter-let us now make acquaintance with her.

Louise Bartenau was not a Frenchwoman by birth, nor had the name she bore in the land of her fathers been the Erench one, Louise. She, whom fate had destined for the life-partner of the Poitevin Huguenot, grew and ripened into loveliness beneath the beauty-fostering sun of Cadiz. Whether that genial city had also been her birthplace, no one knew; for Zara Diaz had been a foundling. The first of these names had been found attached to the cloth which wrapped the infant; and the second was that of the good Cadiz trader, who adopted her as his foster-child, and beneath whose roof Bartenau, travelling in Spain for the purposes of his commerce, had found her.

There could be little doubt that the dark-eyed child, who seemed almost daily to expand into precocious beauty, was of Moorish or perhaps of Gipsey parentage. The posterity of the Visigoth has become matured into

VOL. XIV.NO. CLXV.

fringed round with long black silken lashes, such liquid gushes of molten fire, as flooded with tenderness the swelling brow of whoso those eyes lighted on-and above all, the exquisite fineness of the round limbs, the wonderful degree of elasticity united with extreme slenderness of wrist and ankle, hand and foot-the beautiful snake-like pliability of the exquisitely small waist, all unconscious of band or stay-all this unmistakebly declared the blood of a race which had dwelt in lands warmed by a yet hotter sun than that of Spain.

And then "quant au moral?" Well, the fact is, that Jacques Bartenau, the stern religionist, the thoughtful, severe, moral man, did not inquire or think so much on this part of the matter as might perhaps have been expected. Perhaps he was fairly subdued, stunned, and incapacitated for anything like cool or rational judgment, by the excessive beauty of his mistress. Wiser men than he have been plunged into such a helpless condition. Perhaps there were certain obliquities in his own moral idiosyncrasy, which tended to make him look on woman rather as a toy for the relaxation of man during his hours of recreation, than as the heaven-sent partner and equal friend of all his hours alike, of his graver as of his lighter moments, of his griefs as of his joys. Proud, cold, stern, excessively manly-minded men, rarely think worthily of women. Manly-minded, reader, you will be so good as to observe. Not manly-hearted. C'est tout autre chose. The error we speak of has its seat in the intellect, not in the heart.

Perhaps, again, Jacques Bartenau was attracted by the very absence in his wife of almost all those moral qualities which he had, and the presence of those which he had not. There is nothing unprecedented, or indeed extraordinary, in such a fact. "Simile simili gaudet," says the Latin proverb. But experience shows us that in the intercourse of the world the reverse is quite as often the

case.

Be this as it may, certain it is that the austere Huguenot differed not more in the physical organisation of his stalwart and stiff person from that of his wife, than he did in moral constitution and development. Not that the most subtle moral alchemist, if every thought and impulse of the young Spanish girl had been put into his crucible, could have detected there aught that could merit a severe judgment. The absence of much that it might have been better to have found there, may be admitted, but scarcely the presence of aught very darkly evil. Indeed, in comparing the entire moral being of Jacques Bartenau with that of his young wife, it might well be deemed that her "state was the more gracious” of the two, much as such a judgment would have appeared monstrous and absurd to the Poitevin merchant himself.

But with all this it must be supposed that Jacques Bartenau loved his wife; of course he did, and why did he marry her? There was no other inducement to the match. And he did love her as such a man could love such a woman. Gay, laughter-loving, ardent, volatile,

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enthusiastic, passionate, impressionable to the highest de- | Crushed was the gay spirit; sunken and wan the clear gree-did she was it possible that she could love him? dark cheek; hollow and haggard the still lustrous eye; Yes! At least, at the time of their marriage she thought drooping and bent that once so elastic form. And when, There was something so new to her, so majestic and about three months before her confinement, the horrors of almost awe-inspiring in the manifestation of combined imprisonment under such circumstances, and for the sake moral, intellectual, and physical strength, joined, too, to of that faith, which had already made her suffer so much considerable personal attraction, as they were in the per- in this cheerless and unhappy land, was added to the load son of the northern stranger. And it was flattering to she was called upon to bear, it seemed to be the last drop little Zara's woman's part to see all this strength pros- in the already too full cup of her sorrows. The vigorous trate at her tiny feet. organization of her frame, however, did not sink before she had given birth to her infant. But that was the last effort of nature's exhausted energies. She never rallied afterwards; and at the expiration of rather less than a year from the birth of her child, she breathed her last sigh within those same dreary prison walls. The last restingplace of that poor worn-out form, which nature had fashioned of her daintiest handyworks to be the fitting dwelling-place of so bright a spirit, was chosen by the bigoted intolerance of persecutors, who would fain have carried their hatred beyond the grave, in a dark, obscure, and sunless corner of the prison yard. Hatred, impotent, at length, as well as odious!

So the strangely-matched pair became man and wife; and Zara henceforward assumed the French name "Louise," in conformity to her husband's will, though somewhat in opposition to her own wishes. And the moment soon arrived when she must leave the bright skies of Spain, gay Cadiz, her beloved foster-parents, and all her girlhood's friends, to follow to a strange northern land the stern cold man, who was now to be to her in the place of all things, home, parents, friends. At the best it was a cruel wrench, a tremendous trial. called so for the last time by the weeping friends who clung around her-she, all unused to trial of any kind, abandoned herself to a convulsive burst of grief, which almost alarmed, and quite displeased her calm and selfpossessed husband. It was an ill-omened commencement.

And Zara,

Well the reader has now some knowledge of the young mother who has just given birth to her first child in the prison of Niort. And the particulars of her story, of which he is in full possession, will enable him easily to fill up in his imagination, alas! but too accurately, the short outline of the remainder of her history, which we shall comprise in a few words. We should not have devoted so much space, as we have done to the purpose of making the reader acquainted with her for alack! he is to lose her immediately, and her part in this history is well nigh played out already-were it not that it is necessary to our purpose that he should know what manner of woman in mind and person was the mother of "the Huguenot's daughter."

Few words will be needed to make the reader sufficiently acquainted with Andrè Riberac, the Huguenot minister of Niort. He was one of a class of men often painted by the delineators of character, who has found it easy to produce an effective portrait of an original, in which every line is strongly and deeply marked, which requires no delicate lights and shadows, no modifications of temperament difficult to seize, and which, hard and firm itself, may be best outlined by an artist of hard and firm hand. Andrè Riberac was a true, a genuine bigot. An ardent, eager, and powerful, yet narrow mind, an atrabilious temperament, a hard heart, and a spirit rigid with pride of the same cast as that which exiled Lucifer from heaven-these were the qualifications that made the Niort preacher as fierce a bigot as ever hated. He was an eminently pious man; he was sincere -frightfully sincere in his belief in the horrible doctrines he taught; he had suffered much persecution for his adherence to those doctrines; and he stood extremely high in the opinion of all those of his sect throughout the west of France. His mind was habitually occupied with the contemplation of "heavenly things;" that is, he was ever gloating over the picture of the eternal torments of those whom he hated in this life. From those vices which arise from frailties of humanity, or from bodily self-indulgence of any kind, Andrè Riberac was free. Indefatigable, rigidly abstemious, careless of wealth, the preacher had none of these faults, because he was all bigot. His religion occupied the whole man. And, perhaps, rarely has there lived in self-complacency a soul less fitted by its earthly pilgrimage for communion with its Maker-less capable of conceiving a worthy idea of the universal Father-in a word, less godly, than that of the correct and zealous preacher.

Two years had elapsed between Louise Bartenau's marriage and this her first confinement. And they had done much in their course to convince both the Huguenot and his wife that they had made an irretrievable mistake in uniting their fortunes indissolubly. It was not mere caprice that induced Bartenau to desire the change of his wife's name. He would fain have buried in oblivion, and that, too, from the first moment of his marriage, all that could serve to recall his Spanish wife's race, creed, and country. Jacques Bartenau stood very high in the esteem and respect of the Huguenot party in his own town and province. He was a leading man among them. And he had incurred their very general disapprobation, and even the expressed censure of his clergy, by his marriage. The poor Spanish girl, in the innocence of her heart, and the ignorance of her head, had willingly professed her adoption of her husband's creed. But her new co-religionists rightly judged her a proselyte of little value. Her husThe personal appearance of the preacher was decidedly band could not be said to have been guilty of active un-favourable, though there was that about it which would kindness towards her. But he was constantly surrounded by those in whose eyes she was an abomination. And he suffered her to become conscious that his marriage was a matter of conscientious self-respect to him.

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have prevented most physiognomists from pronouncing it pleasing. His figure was tall, and not without dignity, though thin to emaciation, and of extreme rigidity. The eye was the feature of this face that first arrested the attention of a stranger, and held it long. It was deep and black, and might almost be called flaming, so inces

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