of her youth, had tinged the mind of her son with a softness, and disposed it to a susceptibility, which though it impaired not his animal courage in the hour of danger, exercised a powerful influence over his affections, rendering him alınost a slave to their empire.

Annette Vignolles was a creature of remarkable beauty, and quickness of feeling. She had been from her childhood as a daughter to the widow, and had never known a thought, a wish, or a hope in which the widow's son had not been included.

It was soon after Annette had reached her sixteenth year that her father, in endeavouring to extricate one of his goats, which had fallen from a cliff, missed his footing, and was hurled into an abyss, nearly filled with snow, where a certain but lingering death awaited him, had he not been rescued by the intrepidity of Michel Bauvais; who, at the risk of his life descended where no human foot had ever before dared to tread, and saved Martin Vignolles from his perilous position.

This accident was followed by the total loss of the use of Vignolles's limbs; who, from that day, became unable to afford the least assistance towards the maintenance of his family. Then it was, that the widow and her son endeavoured to repay the debt of gratitude due to their neighbours. Michel laboured for them with unremitting toil and alacrity, and suffered them to experience no diminution of the few comforts, if comforts the strict necessaries of life might be called, to which they had hitherto been accustomed. Anxiously but unavailingly had the widow tried to prevent Michel from pursuing the hazardous profession of his lost father. In all other respects the most docile and obedient of sons, he evinced in this a wilfulness that often filled her heart with the most gloomy forebodings-forebodings which infected the mind of Annette with fearful apprehensions, whenever he was absent on those dangerous enterprises. Yet when he returned home, bending under the weight of his spoil, and made light of the fears of his mother, or silenced them by his caresses, the whole circle collected in the chalet of Martin Vignolles felt too happy to chide him; though all never sought their humble couches without offering up fervent prayers for his safety. Often would the widow dwell on the past, not less with a view of warning her son than from that yearning of the heart towards the dear departed felt by all who have known the misfortune of losing the partner of their youth.

"It was just such a night as this," would she say, "that I expected my poor Claude for the last time. "Ah! how well do I remember it ! I made up a good fire, prepared his supper, and carefully swept the hearth, for my dear husband always liked to see a blazing fire, and a clean hearth. Michel slept in his cradle, and smiled in his sleep, poor innocent, little dreaming of the dreadful misfortune that hung over us. I tried to work; but the needle slipped from my fingers, they trembled so. I opened the door, and stood on the ledge of the rock near it, to listen for his step-that step I was never again to hear. The moon was shining, as now, like silver, and the frozen tops of the mountains were sparkling with light, except when a cloud passed over the bright face of the moon, and then a dark shadow fell on them. I knew not why it was, but a cold tremour shook my limbs, and my heart trembled; the branches of the pine creaked discordantly, and the wind, which a minute before had been still, sighed mournfully

through the leaves. I looked around, but all appeared so cold and bright, so unfeeling-like to my fears, that I turned from the view, as one turns from a selfish, heartless person, who has no pity for our misfortunes, and I came back to the house to seek comfort in looking again at my sleeping child. Oh! what a long night was that! I thought it was the most miserable I ever should pass; but I have passed many a more wretched one since, for then I had hope. I remembered through the weary hours how he looked, and what he said. He stood on the threshold he was never more to pass, looking back on us with a smile, which I, at the moment, thought too gay a one when leaving us; but which, when I recalled it to my memory in that night, seemed sadder than a smile ever was before. How often have I thought of that smile since! I followed him a few steps, and kissed him again,-woe is me! it was for the last time, and he chided me because the tears started into my eyes. But his chiding was gentle, so it ever was; and when he got to the last pine-tree, he turned round and waved his hat to me. Ah! neighbours, who could have thought that I was never more to see him ?"

Tears interrupted the widow's melancholy reminiscences, nor did they flow alone; for Annette's, too, coursed each other down her cheeks; not so much, the truth must be owned, from sorrow for poor Claude Bauvais, whom she could not remember, as from the dread of the possibility of a similar fate awaiting his son.

Annette and Michel loved with no common passion. Their attachment had grown with their growth, and strengthened with their strength. All their notions of the past and the future were identified with each other; and the possibility of separation never occurred to either, save when the widow related the melancholy parting with her husband, which, though often repeated, never failed to excite the tears of Annette, and the seriousness of her lover. Love, at all times so engrossing a sentiment when felt for the first time in youthful hearts, was all-powerful with these simple children of nature, whose thoughts, wishes, and hopes were centred in their own narrow circle. Their parents witnessed the affection of their children with satisfaction. They had, from the birth of both, arranged their marriage, and never doubted that the attachment which they desired should spring up between them, would prove as warm and ardent as it really was. Motives of prudence had induced them to defer the marriage of the young people, until Michel had attained his twenty-first year; and the misfortune that had befallen the father of Annette, by leaving him and his family dependant on the exertions of the young man, rendered the resolution of procrastinating the marriage still more necessary.

It was on a cold night in the early part of autumn, when winter had anticipated its visit by many weeks, that Michel Bauvais, returning to his home through a narrow pass in the mountains, was attracted by the barking of a dog; and, on approaching the spot whence the sounds came, discovered a man nearly in a state of insensibility, over whom the faithful animal was uttering his melancholy cries. It was not without considerable difficulty that he succeeded in restoring suspended animation to the stranger, and then slowly led him to the humble chalet, where his mother assisted him in his exertions to render the visit of their unexpected guest as comfortable as their limited means per

mitted. The warmth of a good fire, and some boiled goat's-milk, had such a salutary effect on the invalid, that he was shortly able to thank his preserver, and to inform him that he was an artist, 'who, in his search of the picturesque and sublime scenery which he wished to delineate, having advanced farther into the mountains than prudence warranted, had lost his way; and, after many hours passed in fruitlessly endeavouring to regain it, had at last sunk exhausted into a slumber, whence in all human probability he might, from the intense cold to which he was exposed, have never awakened, had he not been rescued by Michel Bauvais.

The young artist was pressed by his poor but hospitable hosts, to continue with them a day or two, until he had recovered sufficient strength to ensure a safe return to his home. He opened his portfolio, and delighted their inexperienced eyes with sketches that might well have claimed approbation from those accustomed to see the finest drawings. Annette was called to share in the gratification their display afforded, and her beauty and artless grace excited so much interest in the young artist, that he immediately made a portrait of her, which filled her lover with joy and gratitude.

The vicinity of the wild spot inhabited by the two families, possessed such attractive scenery, that the painter prolonged his stay several days for the purpose of sketching the different views. Annette would hang with delight over his drawings, and listen with scarcely less pleasure to the songs he would sing her while making them. She would loiter at night an hour or two after the usual hour of seeking repose, to hear the young artist's description of the towns and their inhabitants in which he had dwelt; and had a thousand questions to ask relative to scenes of which hitherto she had been in perfect ignorance.

At first Michel shared in the interest which was awakened in her mind; but soon a jealous feeling occasioned by witnessing how much of her time and attention was engrossed by the stranger, took possession of his mind. He became moody, captious, and harsh to her, towards whom he had never previously evinced a symptom of ill-humour. This sudden, and to Annette unaccountable change in his temper, only aggravated the cause that led to it; and the poor simple girl, repulsed by her lover each time that she sought to address him with her wonted and affectionate familiarity, took refuge in the mild and amusing conversation of the young painter. When Michel was compelled to be absent from the chalet in search of fuel, or to lead home the goats, it was evident that his moodiness increased; and when he returned, it was excited almost to frenzy, by finding Annette seated by the stranger, listening with unconcealed delight to his songs, or the stories he related to her.

The whole character of Michel became changed. No longer the gay youth, whose cheerfulness had been the life of the chalets, his illhumour was now a source of chagrin to all its inhabitants, none of whom, owing to their simplicity, suspected its cause. Often in the moodiness of his spirits, when stung into anger by some innocent familiarity exhibited towards the stranger by Annette, he almost cursed the hour when he saved him from death, and led him to the chalet to fascinate her who hitherto had never lent her eyes or ears with pleasure to aught save himself alone.

Sketches of Annette multiplied every hour. The artist found her figure so graceful and picturesque, and it gave such a charm to his drawings, that he was never tired of copying it; and sooth to say, Annette, with all her simplicity, had enough of woman's vanity in her heart, to be pleased, if not proud of the artist's evident admiration of her. At this time, too, the young painter, who sometimes amused himself in the composition of simple songs, addressed the following one to Annette, and this piece of rustic gallantry excited the jealousy of her lover into still greater violence.

“Beautiful maiden, as pure as the snow

On thine own native mountains, wherever I go,
I'll think of thee artless and fair as thou art,-
Though soon, ah! too soon, I from thee must depart.

I'll think of thee beaming as now with a smile,
And thy innocent converse that oft did beguile
The long hours of evening, and of thy sweet song
That the wild mountain-echoes so love to prolong.

Beautiful maiden, oh! blest be thy lot

With the youth who has won thee, though I be forgot.
My prayer shall ascend to the Heavens for thee,
When distant thy sweet face no more I can see."

One evening when Michel returned to the chalet, he found the stranger platting the long tresses of Annette, who was innocently laughing at the awkwardness with which he performed the operation. Michel had, from her infancy, always reserved this task as a labour of love for himself; and his feelings could not have been more wounded had he discovered her in the arms of the stranger.

"How, faithless girl!" exclaimed he, " and is it come to this? Is all shame gone, that you let a stranger touch those tresses, that my hands alone have heretofore pressed? And you, ungrateful man! is it thus you repay me for having saved your life? But I will fly from you both for ever!" And so saying, he rushed from the chalet with the frantic haste of a maniac.

The stranger, alarmed by his violence and impetuosity, the cause of which he for the first time clearly discerned, and deeply pained that he should have furnished the occasion for the development of a passion which now raged with such fury, fled in pursuit of Michel, leaving Annette overwhelmed with surprise and grief. Dreadful were the sufferings of the poor girl, as hour after hour elapsed, bringing with them no tidings of her lover or his pursuer. At early dawn, after a night of such wretchedness as she had ever previously been a stranger to, she stood in front of the chalet, straining her eyes in the hope of discerning her lover; when her young sister descried a figure in the distance, and pointed it out to her. The most fearful apprehensions filled her breast, for there was but one figure to be seen, and that with the quick sight of love she discerned was not his.

Alas! the fears of Annette were but too well founded. Durand, the young artist, only returned to prepare for the reception of the corse of the illfated Michel, which, after a long search, was discovered, owing to the barking of his dog, in the very spot whence, but a few days before, he had rescued him who was the innocent cause of the groundless jealousy that

led to his own destruction. Whether the unhappy youth had wilfully precipitated himself into the yawning gulf, or that in the rapidity of his flight he had overlooked his vicinity to it, and so had accidentally fallen in, was never ascertained. The charitable-minded of the few persons collected from the neighbouring hamlets were disposed to adopt the latter supposition, while those less good natured, declared their conviction that the deceased, driven to madness by jealousy, had thrown himself into the chasm, where his mutilated remains were found—a belief in which they were strengthened by the frantic self-accusations of the wretched Annette, who, with piercing cries, declared herself to be the cause of all. Fearful was the picture presented at the two chalets, so lately the scene of peace and content. The poor old mother of Michel Bauvais, rendered nearly insane by this last terrible affliction, sat by the corse of her son, and, gazing fondly on the pale face, murmured, from time to time, "Yes, there he lies, as his father did before him, twenty years ago. Gone from me, without a parting word—a single embrace. These cold lips, that never uttered a word of unkindness to me, cannot return the kiss that I imprint on them. Ah, my son! never before did they receive the touch of mine without returning the pressure. How often in my dreams have I seen you as you now lie, cold, speechless, without life, and I have awoke in agony, to bless God that it was but a dream! But now! oh! my son, my son, who will close the weary eyes of your wretched mother, who will lay her in the grave! The wicked spirits of these dreary mountains first envied me the possession of my poor Claude, and snatched him from me, and now they have torn away my son. Often have I seen a light too bright for mortal ken, shine into his room, when he slept, as if the moon itself had entered his casement, and cast all its beams around his head, just as it used to do around that of his poor father. I ought to have known it boded no good, but I dared not think that my child would be taken from me. I have heard such sighs and whispers, too, in the night, when the wind has shook the chalet, and the snow has been drifted against the windows with a violence that has dashed them to pieces. Ah! I ought to have known that even then the evil spirits that haunt these wild mountains were planning his destruction !"

So raved the poor woman, in all the incoherence of a grief that unsettled her reason, until some of the inhabitants of the nearest hamlet came to remove the corse for interment, when, uttering a piercing shriek, and clasping it in her arms, she fell senseless on the coffin; and when raised, was found to be dead. Annette had lost all consciousness of the misery around her, in a brain fever, which kept her hovering between life and death during many days. When health once more began to tinge her pale cheek, it was discovered with sorrow by Durand, who had watched over her with unceasing solicitude and unwearying care, that reason reassumed not its empire in her brain. Perfectly harmless and gentle, she did all that she was told to do, with the docility of the most obedient child, but was utterly incapable of the least reflection or of self-government. Durand, considering that he was the cause, though the innocent one, of the afflictions that had befallen these poor families, insisted on becoming their support for the future. He prevailed on the helpless old Martin Vignolles to accompany him, with his two daughters, to Paris, where, having established them