Chapter II: Part 2

Mary had acquired one valuable piece of information. She knew enough to understand how very trifling was the sum of all her knowledge; it may be remarked that very ignorant persons are almost always the most conceited. Such individuals have no more idea of knowledge than those born blind or deaf can have of sight or sound. But the gentle humble-minded Mary Mannering was a very opposite character. She was _not_ ignorant; she had, as it were, peeped, through books and conversations with her father, at the vast stores of knowledge and learning which human reason has been permitted to accumulate; and, though she knew how little, in the longest life, could really be mastered, in comparison with the mighty whole, she also knew that one of the purest pleasures that life affords proceeds from acquiring the sort of information which opens to our view the wonders of creation. Thus would she quietly listen to conversations on many improving subjects between her father and Mr. Vernon, seldom joining in them, it is true, unless she was addressed. But hers was that "eloquent silence" which is the opposite of indifference.

And thus several months passed away; for the remedies Mr. Vernon recommended to his patient were slow in their operation. Winter came, and still he was a daily visitor. Oh! how sadly Mary would have missed him!

An event, however, was about to occur of some importance; nothing less than Harriet's return home from her protracted visit at Mrs. Somerton's.

Yes, Harriet returned to her lowly home, less inclined than ever to be content in her own station. She returned to it, however, because Mrs. Somerton had not found her distinguished by the gentleness and humility she had hoped to recognise in her character. For the proud and vain are always selfish, and perhaps Harriet Mannering had been quite unconscious that, while eagerly bent on her own enjoyment and frivolous gratification, her conduct had been narrowly watched. And what had she to show as the harvest or even gleanings of the last few months? Literally nothing, for her time had been utterly wasted--her fine clothes were worn out, and neither mind nor prospects improved.

It appeared that Mr. Vernon had sometimes visited at Mrs. Somerton's, but, though Harriet recollected him immediately, she had made so little impression on his mind that he did not at first remember her. And now it was no small mortification to the vain girl to discover that Mary, in her humble home and common dress, was treated both by Dr. Vernon and his son with a consideration _she_ had never found among any of the gay guests at Somerton Park. For the truth was they already loved and esteemed Mary.

This was, perhaps, the first happy awakening of Harriet to the faults of her own character; she began to perceive the sweetness of gentle, unselfish humility, which, prompting ever to a contented fulfilment of our duties, is sure to make its presence felt, even as we know, by its delicious perfume, that the violet is near, though hidden from sight beneath its green canopy of leaves.

Time passed on. At last, one happy day of returning spring, light gleamed again on the darkened orbs of the afflicted father! The cure was working, and soon--very soon, he could recognise his dear children; and, throwing back their hair to gaze yet more fondly on their countenances, he would talk of the change of time, of their growth, and, above all, of his deep thankfulness to the Almighty for the blessing of sight. And now it was that Harriet fancied--was it fancy?--that he looked more fondly at Mary than herself. And then _they_ had so many subjects of interest to talk about, of which she knew nothing. But whose fault was it that she had not shared her gentle sister's cares and pleasures?

The happy time had come when Mr. Mannering no longer required the guiding hand of either daughter. He was walking in the little garden which belonged to their dwelling when Dr. Vernon and his son arrived. Contrary to his custom, the old gentleman, perceiving his friend, joined him out of doors, while Arthur, who well knew his way up stairs, tapped at the door of their one sitting room. He did not perceive any occupant but Mary as he entered, and indeed, I am not quite certain that even she was aware that Harriet was in the room, Mary herself having only just come in, and her sister being nearly hidden by a thick curtain which half covered the window.

It was then and there, with the haughty sister for a listener, that Arthur Vernon asked the gentle Mary to be his wife!--hinting at his hopes and wishes at first in answer to some expressions of gratitude from her for the service he had rendered her father, and begging her thus to repay it by giving him herself.

Mary wept, but they were very happy tears she shed; for now she might own that gratitude and admiration, for his noble qualities had made Arthur Vernon very dear to her. Yet she could not refrain from asking if his father were willing he should marry one poor and humble as herself.

"Think not, dear Mary," he replied, "that I would tempt you to disobedience by setting you the example. I am almost sure my father has spoken to Mr. Mannering this morning on the same subject, and here our parents come to complete our happiness by giving their sanction."

And so it was. Dr. Vernon kissed her affectionately as he said, "My son has chosen wisely and well. A dutiful daughter will make a good wife; and though now he is rich, he knows how mutable is all earthly fortune. And so he has chosen a wife whose wealth cannot be taken from her, for it consists in good principles and a well-stored mind; and an humble, loving, and gentle nature, that will add to all the joys of prosperity as it would comfort him in the sorrows of adversity, prompting her, in either case, to 'do her duty in that state of life unto which it shall please God to call her.'"

And after awhile Harriet came forward with streaming eyes, but her tears did not now spring from envy or selfish regrets. "Father!" she exclaimed, "in this happy hour, forgive me my haughty selfish conduct. Mary! teach, oh, teach me some of your virtues!"

"I forgive all, Harriet," replied Mr. Mannering, with much emotion, "for the acknowledgment of your error is half-way to repentance and atonement. And this is a day of triple happiness, for I have just heard that, now my sight is restored, I have a fair chance of again entering into mercantile pursuits, and arriving at independence. But oh! my children, neither in prosperity nor adversity let us forget to pray for true humility of heart--the Christian spirit!"

VICTORINE DUROCHER; OR, THE BLESSINGS OF PEACE.

BY MRS. SHERWOOD, AND HER DAUGHTER, MRS. STREETEN.

VICTORINE DUROCHER.

It was towards the end of the pleasant month of May, that Dorsain D'Elsac reached Salency, in Picardy, and stopped at the door of his sister's cottage, a Madame Durocher, who dwelt in that village. Dorsain D'Elsac was one of three children. The elder, Pauline, however, was no more; she had married, but was never a mother, so that the children of Margoton Durocher, his remaining sister, were the nearest relatives he had left in the world. It is true D'Elsac had a wife, one, I must say, of the best tempered women in all Dauphiny,--she was a native of Grenoble, in that province,--but she was now getting on in years, and was often very weary of her daily employment, and yet she had no one to whom she could occasionally entrust her duties.

It was one evening, when complaining of this to her husband, that Madame D'Elsac suddenly exclaimed, "What say you, Dorsain, of sending to Salency for one of your sister Margoton Durocher's grown up daughters; as Pauline has left no family, we may ask Margoton to let us have one of her three good-sized girls? Had we not better have one of your own nieces, Dorsain, than a stranger?"

Though Madame D'Elsac, having once thought of this plan, was ready and willing to put it into execution without a thought, not so her worthy husband. He must first weigh the affair steadily in his mind, and repeat over and over again to his wife, that if once they took a relative into their house, they could not part with her as a hired attendant if she did not suit them; "and then you know, Delphine," he added, "you and I are so happy and comfortable together, that I should not like to invite one to our home who might make that home disagreeable."

Madame D'Elsac's disposition was of that easy kind that she allowed her worthy partner almost to talk himself against the arrangement altogether, and the matter would probably have dropped without any consequences, had not Dorsain mentioned it to a neighbour, who had been at Salency two years before, and who had been highly delighted with the lovely daughters of Madame Durocher. So the affair was settled, that D'Elsac should invite a niece to wait upon his wife, and to reside with them on their pretty little farm, near Grenoble, on the borders of Swisserland. The next point in question was, whether this selected niece should be Caliste, Victorine, or Lisette, for as to little Mimi, the fourth daughter of Madame Durocher, she was considered altogether too young for the office.

Monsieur D'Elsac had not seen his sister nor her children for many years, and it is probable, that this slow-minded gentleman would have pondered till his death, upon which he should favour of his nieces, if the quicker Delphine had not proposed that he should go over to Salency and see the young girls before he made his selection. So the affair now really appeared likely to come to some settlement after all, particularly as Monsieur D'Elsac did arrive safely in Salency, mounted on one of his own farm horses, from which he alighted at the door of Monique.

The cottage of his sister was small, containing only three apartments and an outer kitchen, and the furniture was of the simplest kind. As the family were numerous, the kitchen was used as a sleeping apartment, the head of the bed being made in a kind of cupboard, into which in the daytime the bedding was turned up, and the cupboard doors closed. A few chairs, a table, and a glass case, in which was a coarse waxen figure, flauntingly dressed, representing the Virgin with her child in her arms, completed the rest of the moveables of the sitting room.

D'Elsac fastened his horse to a post, which opportunely stood near, and walked into the cottage. No sound reached his ear, though around him lay many articles, denoting that the family had not long been absent. He was in the kitchen, but his step aroused no one to see who was the intruder, and he again walked back to the door, but still there was no appearance of any one near.

He looked down the village street, to see if any one was approaching, but the village also appeared deserted, and he was beginning to get a little uneasy, when he was roused by the playful voice of a child as it were behind him. He turned in the direction of the voice, and saw that two young girls were standing in the very middle of the apartment, having come from some inner room.

They did not appear to notice D'Elsac, as he was without the cottage door, and, as he listened unnoticed by them, he was aware that they were too much interested with their own conversation to regard his presence.

He could not doubt for an instant but that these two fair girls before him were his nieces, and the younger, a mere playful child, was no doubt the little Mime or Mimi, as she was endearingly called, for the rare talent she evinced in mimicking or laughing at the eccentricities of her neighbours.

Mimi was a very lovely little girl in outward appearance, her hair and eyes being of a most brilliant black, and she wore the dress of the peasants of Normandy, a province which borders close on Picardy. D'Elsac could not so easily distinguish her companion, though she was evidently an elder sister, and she, too, wore the Norman costume. This dress consisted of a full red striped petticoat, a jacket with short sleeves, and an apron with pockets.

He saw, however, that she was not behind her younger sister in beauty, and though speaking with earnestness to the child, when Dorsain first beheld her, her manner was gentle, and her countenance calm and serene.

"My dearest Mimi," she said, "I want you to understand thoroughly, why I refused to listen to Monsieur le Prieur, when he came to talk to me. He wanted me to try with my own sisters Caliste and Lisette for the rose, and supposing I had agreed to do so, what would have been the consequences, my dear Mimi? I love them dearly now, and I believe they love me; but were I to gain the rose from them, they would be vexed, and if I lost it after trying for it, I should be disappointed, and very likely I should be cross and jealous."

"You are never cross, Victorine," replied the child, "so that you certainly have a better right than Caliste or Lisette to the rose, and then, too, we shall have fine work here, if they are rivals for the rose, and either of them has a chance of getting it."

"Alas! I fear," exclaimed Victorine, sorrowfully, "alas! I fear so, Mimi, I could almost find it in my heart to hope that neither will be chosen."

"But you forget," replied Mimi, "how we manage these things in Salency, you have only been at one of our yearly fetes, whilst I have been to ten, and five of those I can remember very well. Three girls are always chosen, Victorine, by the villagers, not one only, and then the Seigneur takes one from those three--that is the way, you know, and Monsieur Le Prieur wanted you, and Caliste, and Lisette, to be the three chosen. He said it would make the thing so interesting, if three out of one family were striving for the rose."

"Can it be possible," said Victorine, all astonishment, "that anybody can be so ignorant of human nature, as to set three sisters to strive against each other, to rouse up envy and jealousy in their minds, to make them grieve to hear that their own sister is looked upon favourably by their neighbours and friends, because by that favourable notice they will he rejected? Young as you are, Mimi, you can see that this fete of the rose must be very wrong, by raising one girl above another, and causing envy, hatred, and malice amongst the rivals for the rose."

"It is very wrong," exclaimed the child, after a moment's thought. "Yes, Victorine, it is very wrong, I am sure, and a fine scene we shall have of it here, which ever way it turns up. But I am for Caliste against Lisette--I am for Caliste, and if Lisette gains it, I for one will not let her set herself over us. I am for Caliste--I am for Caliste."

So shouting, the child darted from the cottage, paying no heed to Victorine's entreaties to allow the matter to take its course, for enough strife was likely to ensue, and nearly knocking down D'Elsac in her eagerness, she ran down the village street, and the next minute was out of sight. For a moment, or more, her uncle remained still at the door reflecting upon what had passed between the sisters; then, anxious to know what the worthy Salenciens were about, he stepped into the cottage to learn particulars from his niece.

Victorine was seated beside a table, on which lay her needlework, yet untouched; she had covered her face with her hands, and it was evident by her manner she was feeling deeply. The step of D'Elsac roused her, and, looking up, the tear was visible in her eye, she brushed it away hastily, as she rose to receive her visitor, and offering him a chair, she begged him to rest till her parents returned.

"You cannot know me, Victorine," he said, embracing her, "but I am your uncle, D'Elsac, and I am come to Salency to see my sister and her family. It is many years, my child, since we met, but tell me where are my sister and her husband? Where are Caliste and Lisette? or whither has little Mimi run in such haste?"

"Is it possible," enquired Victorine, "that you do not know the fete of St. Medard is approaching, uncle Dorsain? It is well you asked _me_ the cause why our village is deserted to all appearance to-day, had you asked any other Salencien, I really do not know what they would have thought of you."

Victorine spoke playfully, and D'Elsac feared not to acknowledge his ignorance. "Remember," he said, "that I have only once before been at Salency, and that was but for a day. Tell me then, dear niece, what it is I ought to know before my sister returns."

Victorine smiled, as she answered, "Well, uncle, I will repeat to you, as nearly as I can, the words of Monsieur Le Prieur when speaking on this subject:--'Twelve centuries ago, the proprietor of Salency was named Medard, whose good conduct was so renowned, that on his death he was beatified. St. Medard was a native of Salency, and being a great admirer of all that was good in others as well as in himself, he appointed a day of festival, the 8th of June, being his own birthday, on which that young girl, who was most remarkable for good conduct, modesty, and wisdom in Salency, should receive from the judge of the district a rose or crown of roses publicly presented to her in the chapel of St. Medard, and for the following twelvemonth she was to be honoured by the title of the Rosiere of Salency.' In little more than a week is our fete of the rose, and to- day is the day in which the Salenciens meet before the officers of justice to converse on the subject, and to choose three young girls from whom the Seigneur de Salency must select the Rosiere. All the parents and friends, and even the young girls themselves, are gone to hear this discussion; and, unless it may be the sick or infirm, all our cottages are deserted for the chamber of meeting."

"And you, Victorine," enquired Dorsain, "wherefore are you not there?"

She blushed, as she answered timidly, "Dear uncle, I am a heretic, or what we term a protestant. I think such scenes encourage anything but peace or family love."

"A heretic, a Protestant!" repeated D'Elsac. "How is that, Victorine?"

She blushed still more deeply, saying, in very low tones, "My aunt Pauline, you know, married a native of Geneva, and went with him to dwell in Geneva. My uncle Basil was a protestant, and my aunt became one also. They had no family, uncle Dorsain, and my mother being very ill after my birth, my aunt Pauline, who happened to be here, took me to her home, and till I was fifteen, I never even saw my parents. My aunt is dead now," she added, the tears filling her eyes, "and my dear uncle Basil too, so I have come back to live with my parents, and I am allowed to continue in the faith in which I was reared, at least, till I am one and twenty, and then Monsieur Le Prieur threatens to banish me from Salency, and my family, unless I renounce the Protestant faith. I am now seventeen," she added, "Caliste is two years older, Lisette is nearly a year younger, and little Mimi is not eleven. I am allowed free intercourse with my family; and though my bible is taken from me, yet I ought, and am very thankful, for the indulgence shown to me."

"But why do you disapprove this fete, Victorine?" asked D'Elsac. "Does it not encourage virtue?"

"Dearest uncle," she replied, "what is virtue? Are not we full of sin and corrupt before God, and will not such a strife as this encourage envy, hatred, and malice amongst us? Are we not driving peace from our breasts and our firesides, uncle Dorsain, and can we expect to be holier or better when she is banished from us? With peace goes love, and is not 'love thy neighbour as thyself,' the blessed Commandment given us by our Lord?"

D'Elsac, however, did not agree on this point, and he told her so, while, secretly, he congratulated himself on not having been too hasty in his choice. "I might have taken this heretic home," he thought, "and so near Geneva as we are, she would have all the encouragement one heretic ever gives another. Let me be cautious, therefore, I will watch Caliste and Lisette carefully, before I select one as a daughter."

Just when the good man had arrived at this conclusion, a sound of many voices reached them, and the next minute Margoton Durocher, with her daughters and neighbours, stopped at her door. There was an increase of noise and bustle on the appearance of D'Elsac, and for some minutes everybody spoke and nobody listened.

Dorsain was much struck with the change years had effected in his sister. She was as lovely as any of her own daughters when they last met: now she was become very stout, and her features were very coarse; but still her dark eyes sparkled with pleasure, and her cheeks were glowing with unusual bloom.

She saluted her brother on each side the face, inquired kindly after his wife, and then without waiting for further particulars of the reason of his visit, she called aloud for Caliste and Lisette to present them to their uncle.

If Dorsain had been pleased with the quiet Victorine, he was enchanted with the growing and still budding beauty of Lisette, who was certainly, in outward appearance, the loveliest of the family; then Caliste, too, with her long dark eyelashes, and her look of proud pensiveness, was very charming. In short, the worthy man looked first on one fair girl and then on another in high delight, and concluded by heartily embracing the little Mimi playfully, scolding her for pushing by him so hastily, and then, in the same breath, declaring that never before had any uncle four such very charming nieces.

It was curious to see how differently the sisters took this compliment--the proud Caliste's lip slightly curled in scorn at it, as a mere kind commonplace; Lisette blushed, and took the praise as all her own; Victorine smiled good-humouredly, and little Mimi archly took up her uncle's words, and inquired "if he had come to Salency, to see which of her sisters would look best as the Rosiere."

Dorsain, to his astonishment, was suddenly and loudly congratulated on his probably near connection to the future Rosiere, and all with one voice declared, "he would never be forgiven if he did not stay to the fete of St. Medard."

Now Dorsain had already determined he would stay with his sister for some days, but being, as I have before remarked, a thoughtful and slow personage, he was so long in answering, that he found the good and excited Salenciens had imagined his silence was a refusal, and all together they mutually joined to persuade him to stay.

"Now, brother," said Margoton, "this is one of the proudest days of my life, and I shall take it very hard to be thwarted in anything on this day. Caliste, Lisette, my fair rival Rosieres, speak, urge your uncle to stay to see our family triumphant."

"Monsieur D'Elsac, you must remain for the fete," exclaimed one of the neighbours, "we could not let you leave us on any account; well may Margoton call this the proudest day of her life, for no native of Salency has been so fortunate, so favoured, as she is now, from the day the sister of St. Medard was proclaimed Rosiere even to the present year."

Lisette then addressed Dorsain, taking his hand, and looking up into his face, "Uncle," she said, "we wish you to remain, surely you will not vex us by a refusal to-day?"

The speaking eyes of Caliste and Victorine seemed to request his presence, and the little Mimi, hanging upon him playfully, held her finger on his lips, that he should not thwart their wishes. What could Dorsain do? He did not intend to go, but it happily struck him, that he might answer them, as if their over persuasion had prevailed against his past arrangements, and that, without their suspecting his intention, he would have plenty of time given him to study the characters of the three sisters. Moving the hand of Mimi, he inquired, "what had been the result of the meeting that morning."

"Is it possible, it cannot have reached you?" exclaimed the mother, proudly. "Why, Dorsain, never such a thing has been known at Salency in the memory of man. My own two girls, Caliste and Lisette, have been chosen, with Felicie Durand, and the Seigneur will make his election as it pleases him. Two out of one family, Dorsain, only think, two sisters from one family; ought I not to be proud of my girls? But, alas!" and she sighed, casting a look of displeasure on Victorine, "alas! we have all our troubles. Why should the elder and younger daughter be chosen, and the second past over as a shame, rather than an honour, to an honest family?"

Poor Victorine coloured highly, and turned her head away from the group.

Mimi sprang forwards, and seized her hand, exclaiming, "If the best girl in the village was to be Rosiere, where should we find another equal to you, Victorine? Now own it, mother," continued the indulged child, "own that Victorine is the most obedient and complaisant of us four."

Madame Durocher patted Mimi on the head, and held out her other hand to Victorine, as she kindly said, "Well, my dear girl, I cannot help being somewhat vexed; you are a good girl, Victorine, a very good girl; and it is quite excusable in a mother to regret that her child does not share in the triumphs of virtue. I have no fault to find with you, Victorine, none whatever, and as Mimi says you would have as good a chance as any to be Rosiere; what a sad pity it is then, that you have such foolish opinions on some few points!"

"Dearest mother," replied Victorine, respectfully kissing her hand, "I am content, if you are satisfied, not to try for the rose."

"Well, well," exclaimed Margoton, "I am proud of my girls, and I think Felicie Durand has but little chance against them."

"You are right there, neighbour Durocher," replied the same person who had spoken before. "You have, indeed, reason to be proud. How lovely will your charming Lisette, or Caliste either, look at the feet of Monsieur le Prieur, in the chapel, with the crown of roses on her brow!"

Again Lisette blushed as she smiled her thanks, whilst the beautiful eyed Caliste, displeased at the evident preference given by their neighbour to her sister's beauty, turned abruptly towards her mother, and inquired, "if they had not better arrange something for the comfort of Monsieur D'Elsac. My uncle's horse is still at the door," she said, "and he has himself not been asked to take food in our cottage. Victorine has, indeed, mentioned it to you, mother; but her words, no doubt, fell unheeded." The manner, perhaps, more than the words of Caliste, was an intimation to the neighbours to depart, and as they left the cottage, the woman to whom she more particularly addressed her looks, vented her displeasure in words.

"How intolerably proud that girl is!" she said; "and, after all, her sister Lisette is by far handsomer. I think Victorine, too, is very pretty; and as to Mimi, there is no doubt she will soon be her superior in beauty."

"I like Caliste much better than Lisette," replied the person to whom she addressed herself, "for though she is so proud, yet the other is very selfish. Caliste may speak rudely, but she will do you a kindness; as to Lisette, she is wrapped up in selfishness and conceit."

Such were the comments made upon two of the chosen maidens of Salency; and whoever will remember that the heart is full of evil, will no longer wonder at the faults of these young girls. Both Caliste and Lisette kept up an outward semblance of virtue, the one from pride, the other from the desire of being flattered and admired; but as the motives which guided their actions were not all powerful, the moment they were really tried they failed in influencing their conduct.

When left alone, Margoton and Dorsain had much to say on family matters, and the mother expatiated largely upon the late election. "Brother," she said, "Caliste and Lisette have by this shown you how well the villagers regard them. Mimi, too, is an universal favourite; but my poor Victorine,--is a heretic, brother, a decided heretic. Never shall I forget the day that our sister Pauline took the babe to her home; but I thought I was dying then, and my husband thought so too, and what could Valmont do with a young babe? Pauline was not a heretic then--she became one about a year afterwards; but somehow or other we forgot to send for Victorine, or we never had a good opportunity of fetching home the child. Thus things went on, and never shall I forget our astonishment on our first seeing our daughter, when the deaths of Pauline and her husband caused her suddenly to be restored to us.

"Victorine was then fifteen, and mistress of twenty louis in gold; but on account of her heresy, Monsieur le Prieur took it from her for the benefit of the church, and to expend in masses for Pauline and Basil's souls, but he allows us to keep Victorine with us, at least till she is one and twenty, for he hopes a constant communion with Catholics will, in the end, work her conversion. When she is one and twenty, she must either renounce her heresy publicly in the chapel of St. Medard, or else be banished from Salency."

Margoton then went on to speak of her other daughters, and, encouraged to talk by Dorsain, she acknowledged that the proud spirit of Caliste made her often tremble before it, whilst the excessive self-conceit of Lisette prevented any reproof being of use to her. Mimi she mentioned with less pain; her faults being still those of a child, had not yet brought with them a sting to her mother's heart.

When Valmont returned from his own vineyard, whither he had gone that morning, he inquired of his wife, "who had been elected amongst the villagers to stand for Rosiere." Margoton told him with pride of their two children being selected, with Felicie Durand, a girl well worthy, she owned, to be chosen with her own daughters.

Durocher, with more coarseness than his wife, upbraided Victorine for not striving for the rose with her sisters. "Were you but cured of your folly, child," he said, "there is no doubt of your success as Rosiere, for you are a great favourite, Victorine, notwithstanding your heresy."

Victorine could have asked, had she thought it right, if it might not be this very heresy which made her beloved. She had been taught by her aunt Pauline to seek after peace, and to pursue it, for such is well-pleasing in the eyes of our God. And that person who strives not with his neighbour, who is content with his own situation, and willing to give way in what is right to others, will most probably, if he act consistently, be beloved by his friends and neighbours. To her father's remark she made no reply, but there was that in her heart which made her at rest. She did not desire the crown of roses; she did not wish to be exalted above her young friends. She knew wherein true happiness consists, and she was fully aware that such distinction could not confer true happiness.

What especially impressed this upon her mind was the perceiving a cloud upon the brow of Caliste, and a flush on her cheek, which betokened resentment or anger. When alone with this sister, she could not get her to acknowledge what vexed her; but Lisette was not so backward with her information.

"It is not my fault, you know, Victorine," she said, with an affected air, "if I am considered superior to my elder sister. It is ridiculous in Caliste to be angry about that. She ought to conquer her great pride, and then she will be more agreeable and more beloved. She fears me for a rival, Victorine. She is not jealous of Felicie Durand--indeed, I know she would prefer her being elected before me; but I cannot help being a younger sister, neither can I ungratefully quarrel about a preference our neighbours may choose to give me over Caliste."

"Then you think," said Victorine, "you will be the chosen Rosiere."

"I have very little doubt of it," she answered, "for Caliste has shown her pride to our neighbour, Madame Goton, and she is the marchande de mode of Madame la Baronne de Salency."

"But I thought," said Victorine, "that the rose was to be given without prejudice or partiality."

"So it is," replied Lisette, angrily, "and it is by failure of courtesy and civility that Caliste will lose it."

Victorine sighed, for she saw clearly that a breach was made between her two sisters that nothing but time could heal. The elder, in her pride, shunned compassion, whilst the triumphant self-conceit of the younger was a perpetual gall to her sister.

Thus was peace banished from the household of Durocher, and Valmont and his wife were in a perpetual excitement, lest Felicie Durand should be elected, and their own children passed over. Mimi was wholly for her sister Caliste, in opposition to Lisette, whilst Caliste felt her cause a failing one, and had the mortifying assurance she should have to yield the triumph to a younger sister.

Victorine felt for all, and did not know what to desire, for whichever way it turned out, it would bring sorrow to the family in one or other of its members--and thus passed the first four days of Dorsain's visit at Salency.

It was on the Sunday morning, being the first of June, that the election was to be made, after Prone, in church. Prone is an exhortation or lecture, read by the priest at mass, in which he announces the holy days of the ensuing week.

Caliste, Lisette, and Felicie Durand, attired in white, walked together to church, and sate side by side during the service, all eyes being fixed upon them. Dorsain, with his sister and her husband, and Mimi, were also there, but Victorine, who could not join in the service, remained at home to pray for her sisters. Whilst thus left to solitude, she had time given her not only gratefully to thank God for not being one in the strife, but also to implore that the lesson might be beneficial to her family.

From Mimi she learnt that Caliste had reason to believe that Lisette would be preferred to herself, the beauty of her younger sister having attracted the attention and admiration of Madame la Baronne, whose husband was to proclaim the Rosiere.

Earnestly did she pray that the disappointment might be blest to Caliste, and, after shedding some tears for this sister's sake, she prepared to receive her in the manner that would be most agreeable to a proud and disappointed mind. Being led to see that this trial might be, in the end, a blessing to Caliste, Victorine became composed, and even happy, for that peace of God, which passeth all understanding, was shed upon her mind, and she knew that in life or death He was with her, her friend, her guide, her consoler, in all trouble. To this divine Friend and Father she intrusted her sister; and now, with peace in her mind, its holy calm being visible on her brow, she awaited the return of her family from mass.

But, oh, how different were the feelings of her relatives! Her parents were trembling, lest Felicie should be chosen--Lisette was full of triumphant consequence, and assumed an air of indifference--whilst Caliste never raised her eyes from the ground, her long eyelashes resting on a cheek, the brightness of which proclaimed the intensity of her emotion.

The exhortation commenced, the subject for that day being on virtue and wisdom, applicable to the future fete. Then came a pause, and Monsieur le Prieur rising, all present rose together, to hear what was the determination of the Seigneur of Salency.

The chosen maidens alone retained their seats. Caliste did not raise her eyes; Lisette looked round for admiration; whilst Felicie seemed to feel no more than the natural awkwardness of such a situation. Not a sound could be heard in the church, so attentively did all listen to the priest. At length he spoke, but the desired words fell not from his lips; what he said was, however, greedily devoured. A few minutes more he held forth, and then added these words. "The pure splendour of this rose unique," he exclaimed, "is at once the price, the encouragement, and the emblem of this our fairest Rosiere of Salency. What more can I say," he demanded, "but that, lovely as this flower appears, yet for once it will be excelled by her to whom its beauty is devoted. Exquisite and charming is virtue, devoid of the graces of youth and loveliness; but when it is adorned with both, then it is irresistible. My friends and children, can you doubt to whom this description is applicable? If so, let doubt be banished from your minds, and receive with joy, in its stead, Lisette Durocher, the chosen Rosiere of our noble and virtuous Seigneur de Salency."

A burst of applause followed--the parents embraced their daughter, shedding tears of joy, and the service being over, Madame la Baronne came forward and saluted Lisette, whilst the neighbours crowded round to pour forth their congratulations.

Felicie Durand had not expected to be elected; she had, therefore, embraced her successful rival apparently unmoved, but not so her companion. Proudly did Caliste stand aloof; one tear only she had shed, and that had dried ere it fell from her cheek, but casting only one look of indignant anger on those paying court to Lisette, she hastily left the church, wholly unregarded by her parents, and by all save Mimi, who alone amidst that crowd had thought of her.

With a hurried step and throbbing heart did Caliste hasten to her home, forgetful that Victorine was there, and entering the cottage, hastened to her chamber, throwing herself upon her knees, and giving way to the passions that raged fearfully within her.

"And is it come to this!" she exclaimed. "Must I, the elder born, give place to one, because that her cheek is fairer, and that the brightness of her eye surpasses mine? Miserable Caliste! Unhappy, disgraced creature! How can I bear, rejected as I am, for a mere child to appear in Salency? How can my proud spirit bend, to treat with common courtesy those who have passed me over for one so much more girlish than I am?"

Writhing in agony, she thus gave vent to her passion. But suddenly she was roused by soothing words whispered in her ear, and looking up, she beheld Victorine, whose soft eyes were full of tears for her.

"My sister," said Victorine, "my dearest sister, give not way thus fearfully to regret. Mimi has sent me to you, Caliste. Mimi, who loves you, with tears bade me follow you hither."

Victorine, as she spoke, embraced her sister, and earnestly implored her to be calm.

"That can I never be," she answered, "whilst I am rejected, and Lisette triumphs."

"But, remember that she is our sister," whispered Victorine; "that her election is happiness to our parents. Dearest Caliste, wherefore be so dispirited? we all love you dearly; let us not then grieve our parents by not participating in their present cause of satisfaction."

"Victorine," replied her sister, "what cause have I to sooth my parents? Have they forgotten that I, too, am their child, as well as Lisette? Yes, they have forgotten it, Victorine; and in the moment when I most need their comfort, they have passed over their unhappy child, to triumph with her who is triumphant. No, I will not think of them," she added, "for they have already forgotten me. But, what am I saying--they no more regard me; in Lisette's glory they have lost all remembrance of Caliste's downfall."

"Do not say so," replied Victorine, "how proud they were at your being chosen, Caliste; they love you dearly, and even now I dare say they are seeking you."

"Victorine, you speak not what you know to be true," replied the excited girl. "Have not our father and mother continued to upbraid you from the day we were chosen, even to this very morning, because your heresy has prevented your trying to be Rosiere? Would that it were you that were elected, Victorine! To you I could give up the rose with half the sorrow I feel now."

"Ah! sister," she answered, "I thank God that I have not tried with you and Lisette; your very words make me rejoice in my quiet situation. You say you could have given up the Rose to me, but only consider, and you will acknowledge that that feeling would have passed from your mind the moment that I tried for it, with a chance of success, considering my right equal to your own. Caliste, again and again must I thank my God that I have not been in the struggle; and, oh! my beloved sister, what would I give that you might be led to feel as I do, that happiness consists in peace--that peace which the world cannot give nor cannot take away; for it is not made up of perishable things which moth or rust can corrupt, or thieves break through and steal!"

"Victorine," exclaimed Caliste, "I am no heretic; I cannot follow the counsel you give; I must labour to gain praise, I must desire merit; and, in ardently aspiring to gain this Rose, I but follow the wise injunctions of a member of our church who has instituted this ceremony, which our priests approve."

"But consider," replied Victorine, "what are the fruits of the Divine Spirit as mentioned by the Apostle. Are they not all in opposition to such a display as our fete of the Rose? All love is banished, Caliste, at present from our house, and even our little Mimi is as excited as any of us. When love departs, my sister, peace must follow; and only now perceive the state of our hearts. In sympathy for you we must all grieve; but sorry am I to own that even Mimi is roused to anger, and to that jealousy which is the most mischievous of all feelings. If, then, peace is fled from us, we must be in error, and following the counsel of those who are not really disciples of our Lord."

Whilst Victorine spoke, Caliste listened, and even seemed soothed by her words. "You may be right," she said, "in all you say, for of this I am convinced, I should be much happier now if, like you, I had refused to try for the Rose. As it is, I shall never think of this day without pain, neither can I feel for Lisette the affection I once felt for her before we were rivals to each other. From the first it has been a cause of much sorrow to me, for, from the first, I was aware of the preference given to Lisette; and from that moment I believe I have been in one constant state of vexation or painful excitement."

At that moment Mimi came into the room to tell her sisters that their parents were within sight; and, kissing Caliste warmly, the child expressed her displeasure that she had not been the chosen Rosiere. "Next to you, Victorine," she said, "I am sure Caliste deserved it, and I know it was only given to Lisette because she is a favourite at the chateau through Madame Goton, the marchande-du-mode."

Victorine tried to silence the child, and succeeded by proposing that they should go down to meet their friends, and scarcely were they in time to receive the party.

Caliste had shed no tears, but the eyes of Mimi were red and inflamed, and slight traces of the same kind of sorrow were visible on the countenance of Victorine. Mimi was not slow in explaining the cause of her grief, for resolutely did she declare aloud, "that if Monsieur le Baron only knew her sisters as well as she did, Victorine would be chosen first, and Caliste next, before Lisette."

Sincerely did Victorine feel for her elder sister when the chosen Rosiere entered the cottage. With an air of affected indifference Lisette replied to the congratulations of the neighbours, and even professed to think that the choice had been a partial one. "I could never fancy that I should have to take precedence of an elder sister," she said, "and then Felicie Durand is so charming a person that I assure you I felt it no little compliment to be chosen in the trial with her and Caliste. As the youngest of the three you know, I could not have expected to be Rosiere, for I am only sixteen, and Caliste is nearly three years older."

Thus did she enumerate, with an assumed air of innocent unconsciousness, every reason she could think of for her own non-election--not so much to vex Caliste, as she most assuredly did, as to raise her own merits the more above her competitors; for she knew not these words of Holy Writ: "If we live in the Spirit let us also walk in the Spirit, and let us not be desirous of vain glory, provoking one another, and envying one another;" "and favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord shall be praised."

But to speak of Caliste. Whilst her sister thus called upon others to compliment the idol of the day, she stood aloof, her speaking countenance and flashing eye betokening her resentment. It was useless for Victorine to try, by whispered words of affection, to soothe her; Caliste smiled fearfully as she returned her answer in low words, "Never, never," she said, "can the sting in my bosom be removed. Let the poison work, Victorine, it is not your hand that has placed the venom there."

Sorrowing at her disappointment, Victorine would have led her from the room, but she refused to accompany her. "No, I will stay," she said, "I will hear every reason why I am rejected, and my younger sister exalted over my head."

Mimi heard these words; and the excited child, irritated at the sister whom she least loved gaining the crown, turned towards Lisette and passionately addressed her--"Lisette!" she exclaimed, "I wish you would now forget you are Rosiere, surely we have had enough about it. Let us talk of something else, or, if you wish to go on, pray tell neighbour Elise that Monsieur le Prieur himself said that Victorine would be the chosen of all if she would attend mass with us; did he not, mother?" inquired the child; "and did he not come here and talk for an hour to Victorine, two months ago? and did he not promise her, if she would attend mass, she should be the Rosiere this year, and that she should publicly become a member of our congregation on the same day? So, after all, Lisette," she added, "if Victorine had pleased, she would now be the Rosiere."

"You do not know what you are saying, child!" exclaimed Lisette, for a moment assuming the angry countenance of Caliste. "You have not got a correct account of what happened, Mam'selle Mimi."

"Yes, but I have," she answered; "though I know you don't like to hear of it, Lisette. Uncle Dorsain," she added, addressing him, "you might have had all three of your nieces chosen by the Salenciens instead of Felicie Durand."

Whilst Mimi had been speaking, Victorine had left the apartment to make preparations for their dinner, or else she would probably have tried to stop her little sister; as it was, the child, who feared no one else, and who often felt much annoyed by Lisette's assumption of her rights, was glad to mortify her. Lisette and Mimi had both been somewhat spoilt as the two youngest, and the extraordinary beauty of Lisette made her still a favourite and often a successful competitor over Mimi with their parents. And now, this rivalship was manifested by the eager desire of the child to repeat what she knew would vex her sister. "Uncle Dorsain," were her words, "ask my mother if she might not have had my three sisters chosen together, instead of Felicie Durand."

"That she might!" exclaimed Durocher, proudly, but with an air of vexation; "and had you, Mimi, been Victorine, that triumph would have been obtained by our family. Most anxious is Monsieur le Prieur, brother Dorsain, for the conversion of Victorine: it is astonishing what pains the good father has taken with the girl; and it is only a few weeks ago he came here to assure her he would secure the crown to her if she would attend mass regularly. The girl obstinately refused the offer, and it was in anger that he left us."

"And wherefore did she refuse?" inquired Dorsain.

"It was all obstinate folly," replied Valmont; "she declared herself happy without it; and even went so far as to quote Scripture against the fete of the Rose."

"What could she say?" demanded the quiet Dorsain, all astonishment.

"She said what is very true!" exclaimed Mimi; "she told us it would make us unhappy and dissatisfied with each other, and the words she used from Scripture, uncle Dorsain, were these: 'Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled.'"

"And she called the fete of the Rosiere a root of bitterness!" exclaimed Lisette. "Did you ever hear such nonsense, uncle?"

"I do not think it nonsense," said Mimi; "I think Victorine was very right."

"You are too young to judge Mimi;" replied Lisette, "when you are as old as Monsieur le Prieur, you will probably agree with a wise man in preference to a young girl of seventeen."

Mimi, in warmth, took up Victorine's cause; and it was with some difficulty their father silenced them; but the quiet D'Elsac was much struck with what had passed, and his eyes were gradually opening to the fact that Victorine was indeed right, and that the root of bitterness was springing up in the family of his sister.

When once the idea was raised, he became much alarmed, considering the purport of his visit. "Victorine, there is no doubt, is the most sensible of her family," he thought, "but I could not think of having a heretic in my house: then, Caliste looks so fiery, and Lisette is so selfish, and Mimi is so passionate, that I dare not offer a home to any of them. Well, I have not, at present, mentioned the purport of my journey hither; and, if things continue as I fear they will, I shall certainly travel back alone."

On the following morning Lisette, dressed in her holiday attire, went to the chateau to pay her compliments to Madame la Baronne de Salency. The young girl really looked uncommonly beautiful, and her mother, in pride, having embraced her, watched her up the village street, expressing aloud to her brother her satisfaction in being parent to such a child.

Dorsain felt that his sister's rose had many a thorn; he did not say so, however, though the words trembled on his lips, and the thought would not be banished from his mind; and, for the first time in his life, he rejoiced that he was childless. But D'Elsac was in such a deep darkness then, that, beholding faults in his nearest and dearest connexions, made him look upon men with disgust; for he saw not, nor knew of that blood of the Lamb, which, "though men's sins be as scarlet, yet shall it wash them white as snow."

When Lisette returned she had much, very much, to say on the condescending kindness of Madame, neither did she hesitate to add a little to that lady's words.