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every head bowed. And now the soft breathings of the organ die away; voice, and clarionet, and flute take up the hymn. "The banners of the King" move statelily down the nave; and in every pause of the strain, not a sound is to be heard save the silver chime of the falling censer chains. Now they enter the north aisle; now they bear up again towards the choir; now they wind among its chapels; fainter and fainter arises the holy hymn as they recede eastward; now with faint mellowed sweetness it steals from the distant shrine of our Lady; now it is silent, and the organ takes up the note of praise.

REV. J. M. NEALE,

Hierologus; or, the Church Tourists.

JACQUELINE.

Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
SHAKESPEARE.

"DEAR mother, is it not the bell I hear?"

"Yes, my child; the bell for morning prayers. It is Sunday to-day."

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"I had forgotten it. But now all days are alike to me. Hark! it sounds again,-louder, louder. Open the window, for I love the sound. The sunshine and the fresh morning air revive me. And the church bell, -O mother, it reminds me of the holy Sunday mornings by the Loire,—so calm, so hushed, so beautiful! Now give me my prayerbook, and draw the curtain back, that I may see the green trees and the church-spire. I feel better to-day, dear mother."

It was a bright, cloudless morning in August. The dew still glistened on the trees; and a slight breeze wafted to the sick-chamber of Jacqueline the song of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, and the solemn chime of the church-bells. She had

been raised up in bed, and, reclining upon the pillow, was gazing wistfully upon the quiet scene without. Her mother gave her the prayer-book, and then turned away to hide a tear that stole down her cheek.

At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline crossed herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that hung around her neck, and opened the silver clasps of her missal. For a time she seemed wholly absorbed in her devotions. Her lips moved, but no sound was audible. At intervals the solemn voice of the priest was heard at a distance, and then the confused responses of the congregation, dying away in inarticulate murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chant of the Catholic service broke upon the ear. At first it was low, solemn, and indistinct; then it became more earnest and entreating, as if interceding and imploring pardon for sin; and then arose louder and louder, full, harmonious, majestic, as it wafted the song of praise to heaven-and suddenly ceased. Then the sweet tones of the organ were heard,-trembling, thrilling, and rising higher and higher, and filling the whole air with their rich, melodious music. What exquisite accords!-what noble harmonies!—what touching pathos! The soul of the sick girl seemed to kindle into more ardent devotion, and to be wrapt away

to heaven in the full, harmonious chorus, as it swelled onward, doubling and redoubling, and rolling upward in a full burst of rapturous devotion ! Then all was hushed again. Once more the low sound of the bell smote the air, and announced the elevation of the Host. The invalid seemed en

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tranced in prayer. Her book had fallen beside her, her hands were clasped, her eyes closed,her soul retired within its secret chambers. a more triumphant peal of bells arose. The tears gushed from her closed and swollen lids; her cheek was flushed; she opened her dark eyes, and fixed them with an expression of deep adoration and penitence upon an image of the Saviour on the cross, which hung at the foot of her bed, and her lips again moved in prayer. Her countenance expressed the deepest resignation. She seemed to ask only that she might die in peace, and go to the bosom of her Redeemer.

The mother was kneeling by the window, with her face concealed in the folds of the curtain. She arose, and, going to the bedside of her child, threw her arms around her and burst into tears.

"My dear mother, I shall not live long; I feel it here. This piercing pain,—at times it seizes me, and I can not-can not breathe."

"My child, you will be better soon.'

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"Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All tears, and pain, and sorrow will be over. The hymn of adoration and entreaty I have just heard, I shall never hear again on earth. Next Sunday, mother, kneel again by that window as to-day. I shall not be here, upon this bed of pain and sickness; but when you hear the solemn hymn of worship, and the beseeching tones that wing the spirit up to God, think, mother, that I am there, with my sweet sister who has gone before us,-kneeling at our Saviour's feet, and happy,-O, how happy!"

The afflicted mother made no reply,—her heart was too full to speak.

"You remember, mother, how calmly Amie died. She was so young and beautiful! I always pray that I may die as she did. I do not fear death, as I did before she was taken from us. But, O,-this pain, this cruel pain !-it seems to draw my mind back from heaven. When it leaves me, I shall die

in peace."

"My poor child! God's holy will be done!"

The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber. The excitement was over, and exhausted nature sought relief in sleep.

The persons between whom this scene passed were a widow and her sick daughter, from the neighborhood of Tours. They had left the banks

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