bankment, and then launched it on the flood. Victor found that the rapid current was in his favor; he stood in the prow, guiding the boat with a pole, and guarding it from the various obstacles which were floating about. A turn or two more would bring them in sight of Catherine's dwelling, but a cross current met him, and he had a serious struggle to prevent its carrying him away; but, by a strong effort he turned the boat round the right corner, and then, O heavens! how fearful was the scene that burst upon his sight! The water which was bearing him on, was up to the third story, and was rapidly rising; but there was a greater danger attending Catherine than the angry flood. The two first houses on the left-hand side of the street, sapped from their foundations, had fallen in one great crash, whilst the next, being the one in which the Merciers dwelt, was swaying to and fro with every impulse of the fierce tide, and seemed as if, in one instant, it would follow its companions. Victor saw all this, though still at a considerable distance, and also observed that Catherine was at the window just above the water, alone, and clasping her hands as if for aid. With desperate strokes he sent his boat forward, reckless of the broken boards, pieces of furniture, and animals which were thronging in his course. As he neared the place of danger, he came upon a side street, which rose above the water, and on which were assembled a considerable number of people watching the falling house. There were boats moored near, in which they had brought off the rest of the inhabitants; but Catherine had been aroused too late, and did not come to the window till they had steered off. Just afterward, the other houses fell, and now no one would come to rescue the helpless girl. Amidst the group was M. Lubin on horseback, vainly urging the boatmen to make the attempt. "Ten thousand francs to any one who will save Catherine Mercier," cried he. There was not a movement, and the sad looks of the boatmen betokened how desperate the case was. "Twenty thousand-forty thousand shall it be," cried he. Still no one stirred-life was dearer to them than money. "Young man," roared the frantic merchant, as Victor's boat shot past; "half of my fortune shall you that girl." 66 have if you save Beware," cried an old sailor, "it will be certain death." Victor turned his pale face for one instant, and shouted, "Money can not save her, M. Lubin; perhaps true love may." A murmur of applause burst from the crowd. "Here, my brave fellow," cried the old sailor, throwing a rope into the boat, "tie that fast; we shall pull you back more quickly than you can row, and there is no time to be lost; may God speed you." Victor siezed the rope, and knotted it to a seat; gave one desperate stroke, and his boat, released from some stones which had stopped it, shot under the yawning shadow of the trembling house. Catherine had given up all hope. Life is very sweet to the young; and it was with an agonized heart that she had watched the boatmen-had seen M. Lubin's fruitless gesticulations, and felt that no human aid was to be procured. All the events of her past life flashed across her mind, and bitter was her penitence for every folly which had looked so little till seen under the shadow of death. She felt that she could meet her fate more calmly if she could have said one word to Victor but where was he? A sudden and more violent movement of the house, convinced her that the time was short, and shutting her eyes, she knelt down and commended herself to God. A strong hand laid upon her shoulder called her back to life, and starting up, she saw her lover standing in the boat, keeping it close to the window by leaning his whole weight upon the sill. "Quick, quick," cried he, "jump into the boat. God grant that it may not be too late." She sprang lightly down; Victor pushed away from the house; the boatmen, who were watching the scene with breathless attention, tightened the rope, and drew them rapidly back. Scarcely were they at a safe distance, when the whole building fell with a terrible crash, and confused heaps of timbers and bricks, round which the water hissed and foamed, were all the remains of what had so lately been her home. Catherine shuddered and hid her face. Victor, who till this instant had been silent, his compressed lips and frowning brow alone testifying his amongst the suffering population of his deep anxiety, exclaimed, "Thank God! we are safe!" They were drawn to the bank, and landed amidst the cheers of the spectators. When M. Lubin saw that Catherine was out of danger, saved by his hated rival, he pulled his hat over his brows, and spurred his horse away from the spot. Victor, having thanked the boatmen warmly for their sympathy and help, took the poor girl upon his arm, and winding his way by the more protected streets of Les Brotteaux, got safe across one of the bridges which yet remained unflooded. But danger still held her naked sword above their heads. Now they were obliged to fly from falling houses, as they passed in a boat through some of the flooded streets. Then, as they pursued their way on foot, they met a fierce current forcing its way in a new channel. Now they had to tread a terror-stricken crowd, so dense and reckless that it required all Victor's strength to guard his companion from being crushed. Misery and confusion were on every side-mutilated sufferers were being carried on stretchers to the hospitals, and sounds of grief and wild despair rang in their ears. At last, weary, faint, and drenched, Victor led the poor girl to her aunt's house, and without waiting to allow her to speak one word of the love and gratitude which her full heart was struggling to express, he left her. And so the cloud still rested between them. Pierre welcomed his daughter with deep emotion; he had scarcely hoped to see her again, and received her almost as one given him back from the dead. His leg had been set, and Catherine found him as comfortable as under the circumstances could be expected. Again and again he made her relate the tale of her danger and her rescue, and the warm praises he uttered of Victor's bravery were as music to her ears. The young soldier had gone at once to his mother's home, to relieve her fears, and get some necessary food, but he would not stay to rest. 66 "No, mother," said he, "I have saved Catherine, and her life has been granted to our prayers; there are thousands of helpless women and children in danger and distress, and in very gratitude I must go and do my best to succor them." Three days and nights did he labor native city. Where danger was the greatest, and misery the deepest, there was Victor, battling with the floods, helping those who seemed to have none to help them; cheering the fearful, repressing the selfish. And awful were the scenes through which he passed; streets in the most densely populated parts of Lyons were flooded, and in many instances the houses washed down, oftentimes carrying in their ruins their wretched inhabitants. Boats containing the rescued were dashed to pieces by the débris which were being carried about by the raging waters; and those who had just begun to taste the sweetness of hope, were, with heart-rending shrieks, hurled to their death. Cemeteries were flooded, and the graves torn up gave forth their dead, whose bodies, in every stage of decay, floated in ghastly guise upon the face of the waters. Even with the blessed consciousness of doing his best to lessen the suffering, Victor's heart sickened within him. He had not slept the whole time; he only occasionally ran home to assure his anxious mother of his safety, and take some necessary food. But the fourth evening he walked wearily in. 66 'Mother, dear, I ought to be proud and happy, but somehow," said he putting his hand to his head, "I do not seem to care for any thing. The Emperor has been down to Lyons; I had just been getting some poor woman out of a tottering house when I was called by a gentleman, and obeying the summons, I found myself in the presence of his Majesty, who was standing in the midst of the floods half-way up to his waist in water, and by his side was my commanding of ficer, and he spoke a few words to the Emperor; and then his Majesty called me to him, and decorated me with the Cross of the Legion of Honor, for what he called my gallantry in saving the "inondis." And he farther said, that hearing of my conduct at the Malakoff, he would give me a commission; and so your son, dearest mother, will be Lieutenant Chapereau," said he, smiling; "but somehow I do not seem to care for it as much as I ought to do. My head is so bad," added he, throwing himself on the ground, and laying his head in his mother's lap, "I feel as if I had no strength left." Inondis-Sufferers from an inundation. "Mother, where am I?" She put her hand upon his head, it was | knelt by her son. As the morning dawned burning hot; she felt his pulse, it was he opened his eyes, and said, beating wildly. She saw at once what was the matter-over-fatigue, sorrow of mind, the dreadful scenes he had passed through, and the constant exposure to wet and cold, had been too much for him to bear; and her gallant son-her only child-was stricken with a deadly fever. When Catherine called an hour afterward, she found the anxious mother listening to the minute directions of a physician, who said that it was a very serious case. Though Jeannie was rather disposed to be angry with her, the sight of Catherine's misery, when she heard of Victor's illness, and found that he was already unconscious, touched her heart; and of her own accord she asked the poor girl to come and help her to nurse him, knowing that it was what she was long ing to do. Catherine thankfully agreed to do so, and went home to tell her father of this new call upon her time. He was progressing favorably, was in no danger, and having his sister to wait upon him, he warmly approved of his daughter's going to nurse her brave preserver. It is very sad to watch by the sick-bed of a man in the prime of youth and strength to see the body helpless as a little child-the hands vainly endeavoring to grasp anything-the restless head that tosses from side to side-the parched lips. But it is sadder far when the patient is one whom we love best upon earthwhen on the issue depends our happiness or our bitterest sorrow. Very silent was that sick room-few were their words, but constant were their prayers. By turns, Jeannie and Catherine sat up at night; and it was a slight consolation to the latter to try by every loving care to deaden the bitter thoughts which were thronging in her mind, and which, when she feared he might die without hearing her confession of folly, and speaking one word of forgiveness, were well-nigh insupportable. Day succeeded day, and still the unconscious invalid tossed to and fro, every hour becoming weaker; yet the fever did not abate. At last the night of the crisis came, Victor had fallen into a heavy sleep that sleep which, when ended, might reveal the worst. Catherine had retired from the bed, lest, on first waking, the sight of her might startle him; Jeannie Oh! the joy of that voice; it was his own accent, though weak and trembling. She gave him some nourishment, and with a few loving words he fell asleep again. The danger was passed-her son was spared. Catherine continued in her office of nurse, for he was very much reduced, and required constant care, and though all excitement was strictly forbidden, and he was scarcely allowed to speak, it seemed to do him good to watch her as as she moved lightly about the room. One afternoon when he had recovered a little strength, he was sitting propped up by pillows. The window was open, and the fresh spring air was blowing in, while the warm sunshine illumined the room. Catherine was arranging a bouquet of flowers which she had just brought in, when Victor called her to him, and said, "Catherine, I fear this sick-room is but a dull place for you. I shall tell my mother to invite M. Lubin to spend the evening here to cheer you.” "Do not be cruel, Victor; M. Lubin is nothing to me. Did he save my life?" "And the fact of my having had that great happiness is to weigh down the scale even against M. Lubin and all his advantages." "Certainly, if the scale had not been weighed down long before by something else." "And what was that something else?" cried he, drawing her toward him, "what wonderful thing could out-balance M. Lubin-his fashion, his fortune, his jewelry-the carriage he would provide you, the rich dresses you would be enabled to buy-what was it ?" She looked into his eager face, her eyes were filled with tears, and with a trembling voice, as she laid her head upon his shoulder, she said— "Forgive all my folly, Victor, for it was-Love." "My own Catherine," whispered he, we have been in great danger, and yet we have been spared to each other. The rain has ceased from the earth, and the clouds have passed away. Oh! let no more shadows ever come again between thee and me." From Titan. THE TWO BARONETS. A TALE. CHAPTER I. their latticed windows, all afford unequivocal symptoms of old age; yet of that old age, which Cicero so highly admires, in which there is something of youth-in quo est aliquid juventutis for they are all either rose-embowered or covered with clustering honeysuckle, and their little gardens, visible over low moss-crowned walls, are full of marigolds and stock, and wall-flower and sweet-pea, as if nature, ever youthful, would fain cast the charm of rejuvenescence over the frail and perishing work of human hands. AMONG the many lovely hamlets of "merrie England," commend us to Woodthorpe! Its very name is suggestive of rural beauty and tranquillity, and never was name better merited. It occupies a sequestered nook on the banks of a river in one of the most picturesque districts of Yorkshire. It is accessible from the public road only by a narrow lane, but, in "leafy June," what sylvan loveliness does that narrow lane exhibit! On one side it is overshadowed by huge walnut-trees, the growth of centuries; on the other, it is bounded by a lofty hedge of hawthorn, beneath which spring up innumerable violets, which yield their fragrant greeting to the passing wayfarer. Beneath the umbrageous canopy of the walnut-trees runs a low wall of extreme antiquity, (for it is entirely covered with mosses and lichens,) and over it (for it is scarcely three feet in height) one may look far into the wood beyond, or contemplate a sparkling rivulet, which murmurs away within its lonely recesses, and at length passes the lane beneath a Gothic bridge, and so hastens away to join the greater stream in the valley below. Woodthorpe, to which this lane leads, is an ancient as well as sequestered place, and contains not a few remnants of the olden time. Its venerable parish church-an edifice of the "decorated Gothic" style-was once an appendage of the great Abbey of Bolton; its almshouse, founded by some pious soul in the reign of Edward VI., is a quaint, "We must be near our destination now, ivy-mantled edifice; and its vicarage-in Gertrude," she said, with a tone of wearievery thing a meet abode for the mes-ness, looking at her watch. "We have senger of peace-is touched with the been three hours upon this interminable same old-world aspect. Even the dozen road! Heigh-ho! I am really very tired. of cottages of which our hamlet is com- But where are we going now? Oh! I posed are so many antique studies for an presume this lane must be the approach artist's pencil; their thatch, their walls, to the mansion of our primitive aunt." It was toward the close of a lovely day in June that a traveling-carriage, drawn by four horses, whose jaded appearance indicated that they had performed a long journey, turned from the highway into the sequestered lane we have referred to. The vehicle was covered with travelingboxes, of various shapes and kinds, and on the rumble was a female servant, whom fatigue had evidently overpowered, and who was fast asleep. The carriage had come from the nearest railway station, some twenty miles off, with the same horses, it having been impossible to obtain any others by the way. Its interior was occupied by two sisters, both young, and, although differing from each other in some respects, possessing no small degree of personal charms. They had come all the way from the great metropolis, and were evidently wearied with so long a journey. As the carriage turned into the lane, one of the young ladies addressed her companion. "I dare say it is, Elizabeth, but we shall | quisite to the comprehension of the course soon know," replied the younger of the of this narrative. two sisters, letting down the carriage window. "Ah!" she continued, "what a pretty road! Do look at those lovely hawthorns in full blossom! Well, I must say, if Woodthorpe be any thing like the promise which this quiet lane gives, I shall not wonder that Aunt Hartley is happy in her seclusion." "Pooh! nonsense, Gertrude," was the reply, uttered with something not unlike petulance. "How can you talk so? What conceivable happiness can there be in such a condition? No balls, no theater, nothing, absolutely nothing! Why, one might as well be a vegetable, as live in such dismal tranquillity. I really wonder at you!" "O Elizabeth!" was the only reply to this rhapsody; but it was uttered in a sweet, deprecating tone of voice. Woodthorpe Hall-or the "Old Hall," as the villagers were wont to call itwas the manor-house of the fine estate that lay around it. The late proprietor, Mr. Hartley, had left it as the residence of his widow, who, possessed of a comfortable jointure, in addition to the interest of a large fortune of her own, had continued to reside there. She had no family, and, although still in the prime of life, she preferred, to all those scenes of gayety she was so well fitted to adorn, the rural quiet of her beautiful residence, where she devoted her whole time to the labor of doing good. There was not a cottage within many a mile of the benevolent lady's abode the inmates of which had not, in some way or other, been benefited by her ready and active benevolence. Her two nieces, Elizabeth and Gertrude, were the daughters of her only brother, Mr. Warburton. He had married an heiress of large fortune and aristocratic connections, but had not long enjoyed the happiness of domestic life, his wife having died a few years after his marriage, leaving the two infants to his charge. From the period of his becoming a widower, Mrs. Hartley had seen but little of her brother. He had sought relief from the bitter sorrow his bereavement occasioned by plunging into the gayest society of the metropolis, and this was foreign to Mrs. Hartley's inclinations. She had seen her beautiful nieces but once during a visit some years prior to the time we are now referring to; and it was with extreme delight that she beheld them again on their "A long time, indeed," said Mrs. Hart-visit to Woodthorpe-a visit of which she ley, smiling; "no less than some six had, to her surprise, received no intimayears! And what an alteration that 'long tion. time' has made in both of you, my dear girls. You were both quite children when last I saw you. I am sure I should not have known you, had we met by accident. But where is papa? You have not traveled alone surely ?" A few minutes more, and the carriage had passed through the hamlet, to the vast wonderment of its simple inhabitants, and entered a gateway leading into a fine avenue, and, after a drive across a beautifully-kept, as well as extensive lawn, pulled up at the door of "Woodthorpe Hall." "What an unexpected pleasure! And you have really come to see me at last!" exclaimed Mrs. Hartley, after cordially welcoming her fair relatives. "Indeed we have, dear aunt," said Gertrude Warburton; "and I am sure we should have been glad had we been able to do so before. But how well you look after so long a time. It is quite an age since we saw you last." The young ladies explained that it had been necessary for them to do so, as their father could not possibly accompany them, referring Mrs. Hartley for particulars to a letter which they presented to her. Leaving the ladies to the various and innumerable mutual inquiries and explanations incident to the occasion of such a meeting, we must now present our readers with a few retrospective observations re Elizabeth and Gertrude Warburton were eighteen and sixteen years of age respectively. They had received an excellent education; they possessed a large share of personal attractions; they were both naturally amiable; but they had not been brought up under the care of a mother; their father was almost always from home; they were, moreover, heiresses, and thus there were many circumstances calculated to render them proud and wayward. Mrs. Hartley had considerable suspicion of this, and had learned to regard Elizabeth especially an enfant gaté. The letter which her nieces presented |