head. The heavy black curls fell back. One
glance was sufficient. He thought, poor boy!
he had been soothing her to rest, and a better
Comforter had, meanwhile, laid his little true
love in her mother's bosom!

Bewildered and stupified with grief poor
Madonna remained, for some time, kneeling
beside the corpse; then, recollecting himself,
placed it fitly on the low couch, kissed the yet
warm lips, and went down stairs.

He met an early housemaid, who started
and screamed as though he had been a ghost,
which, it is probable, he much resembled. To
her he said that a child—his cousin—was
lying dead above, and that he was hastening
to tell his friends and hers.

The servant tried to detain him; but he
walked down stairs, opened the front door
and proceeded straight to the school, and
to Styles's room. There he related the
circumstance of his dream, and the sad story
of his little lady's imprisonment and death.

Styles—when he wasn't in school—was a
kind, good, old chap, just and decided, and
always did the right thing—which is a great
point, you know.

He wrote instantly to his friend, the clergyman
of the parish, who was also a magistrate.
This gentleman came to him directly, and I
don't know exactly what was the result of
their consultation; but a rather rapid
correspondence ensued with the governess at
Pallas-House.

It was reported that a coroner's inquest
would be held on the poor child. This,
indeed, was not done; but you'll be glad to hear
—at least, I was—that that act of tyranny
cost Miss Billiter her school, and that she now
goes out teaching, at eighteen pence an hour.

Madonna never recovered his former spirits.
He left at the end of the half, and his friends
sent him abroad with a tutor; but he became
so fretful, irritable, and impatient of control,
—at least, of that sort of control—that his
father yielded to a curious fancy that had
seized him in Paris, and procured his
enrolment in the French marine. This was just at
the beginning of the war.

Madonna was appointed to the Ville de
Paris and sailed to the East, carrying the flag
of Admiral Hamelin. At the attack by the
ships upon the sea-forts, at the first bombardment
of Sebastopol, the Ville de Paris got into
a hot position. She lost several officers and
many men, and a fragment of the same shell
which killed two aides-de-camp of the admiral,
laid poor Madonna lifeless on the deck.

The French officers kindly collected every
little article of value belonging to him, and,
cutting off a mass of his bright curls, trans-
mitted the whole to his relations. Among
other things was a small velvet case which
was found in his bosom, and within it a
little paper written in a child's hand. You've
heard it:

This is to give notis that I have promessed to be
your true-love and when I groe up I will mary you
if you like and to be your Dutiful wife till death
and if not I would rather go to my mother—
                          You believe me,
                                 Dear sir,
                                       Yours truly,
                                               ELEANOR WILTON.

     AN OLD PEACE CONFERENCE.

BY this time the famous conference
fauteuils in the Tuileries salle have been rolled
back to the wall—being most likely put away
and covered up carefully from the dust until
wanted for another such gathering. The
peace-makers that sat there, and perhaps
found in them luxurious solace against the
tedium of the weary meetings, have long
since done their work, and are gone away to
their homes. Now that the atmosphere is in
some sort cleared, and our ears are no longer
confounded with such hurly-burly as Sulina
mouth, protectorate, strip of territory, and
Bolgrod difficulty, it may perhaps be found
curious to look back—say, one hundred
and forty-four years—and see how such,
grave matters were transacted at that date.
With what accompaniment of fiddling and
dancing and other light festivity—with what
curious jumble of gay and grave, of priest
and laymen, of Plenipos and beautiful ladies,
of whisperings in window embrasures during
pauses of the dance, of knotty difficulties
smoothed away in my lady's boudoir—a
great treaty was signed at Utrecht, in the
year of our Lord seventeen hundred and
thirteen, may be found an amusing enquiry
even at this remote interval. It will be seen
that the men of those days were formed of
stuff not quite so stern as that which constituted
the potent, grave, and reverend signors
who sat so lately in the arm-chairs at Paris.

Nothing could be imagined more gay and
lively than the aspect of this city of Utrecht,
so often beleaguered and cannonaded, as the
time for the assembling of the congress drew
near. Pleasure seekers flocked thither from
all parts of the world, and of a sudden the
town became filled with a motley crowd of
haughty seigneurs and rich strangers, together
with a fair sprinkling of adventurers and
chevaliers d'industrie from Spa, Bagnières,
and other fashionable watering-places. By
and by the ministers began to drop in to
the surprising number of fifty-four, and their
equipages and gorgeous liveries of their
retainers, pages, and running-footmen—whose
colours and distinguishing tokens were set
forth in a small volume printed shortly after
their arrival—added to the brilliancy of the
scene. Nor was the charm of female attractions
wanting—such of the ministers as were
blessed with wives and daughters bringing
them to share in the great gala, with, of
course, attendant store of costly dresses and
rich parures. Among whom were to be seen
three peerless beauties, whose matchless
perfections had been sung and raved of