parliamentary campaign-young men exhausted by excesses, which had made them old at thirty-and, lastly, were those, the most unfortunate, who, go where they may, carry within their own bosoms the fatal seeds of consumption and death: who vainly seek, in climes that ripen the orange and citron, the health that will never return, and feel, as it were, life fast ebbing away, even at the moment they are inhaling a heavenly atmosphere-in a manner similar to the children of criminals, who, in an honourable and unblemished career, never succeed in escaping the curse, or obliterating the traces, of the past!

Dr. Assandri had for all a consolatory word, kind advice, unwearied attention, as the case might require. People did declare he had effected permanent cures where his brother physicians in London and Paris had only despaired. But, spite of indefatigable labour and frequent success, the doctor's prosperity continued very limited, and the best part of his worldly goods was the house in Almanare, with its pretty garden, a small vineyard, and a few olive trees. The cause of his poverty is soon told, for good Dr. Assandri gave to the poor with one hand what he had received from the rich with the other. From May to October (the quiet season in Hyères), fevers are very prevalent, arising, it is urged, from the frequent proximity to stagnant water. At such times the doctor would devote himself entirely to the poor sufferers. All his little winter savings vanished in procuring wine, broth, provisions of all sorts, which were carefully prepared by his daughter, and then taken by the doctor himself to the invalids. It was in this way that the doctor visited all his patients. And if in the evening his purse was rather light, he consoled himself by the thought that his heart was almost equally so; for had he not imparted comfort and health to his less fortunate neighbours?

However, there was one subject which weighed, every now and then, heavily on this good man's mind, and clouded his intelligent brow. His daughter, Susan, whom he idolised, would be, in another month, eighteen. Scarcely could he repress a sigh on recollecting how small would be the marriage portion of this much-loved child; and he exclaimed, in the words of J. de Maistre, "O for some romantic man, who, with happiness alone, could be content!" And never did a girl more fully justify this outburst of parental love than did Susan Assandri. Merely to say she was beautiful, would be to convey a very faint idea of her loveliness, for it united the two most perfect types of Southern beauty. She betrayed her father's Italian origin by the pale and delicate roses on her cheek— by the expression of her face, which might, perhaps, have been too arch, but for the long black lashes that shaded her brown eyes, and which gave to her countenance a winning and inexpressible softness. From her mother, a noble Arlesian, she inherited light golden hair-features regular, and exquisitely proportioned-a full figure, but so slight and graceful, that she seemed the realization of a painter's or a poet's dream.

"Hers was a form of life and light

That soon became a part of sight."

Though Susan's beauty was indisputable, she was so good and modest, that envy itself was disarmed. Genial and benevolent as her father, she threw a halo of womanly grace over her charity that rendered her quite beloved by the poor. Her companions were all her friends; and, instead of looking on her with a jealous eye, they considered her as some superior being.

One morning, towards the end of October, 1838, the doctor desired his daughter

and the servant, Jeannette, to arrange the best rooms with the utmost expedition, for he anticipated lodgers in the evening. Despite all Susan's perfections, she was still a daughter of Eve, and cross-questioned her father about these coming arrivals.

"I scarcely know more than you, my dear," he replied; "but here is the letter; it is from the Duc de Givry, one of my last winter's patients."

"GENEVA, October 25th.

"DEAR DOCTOR,-I have such a grateful recollection of your skill and kindness, that I never weary talking of you to my friends. I have inspired my cousin, the Marchioness of Aurebonne, with an anxious desire to try the influence of your heavenly climate and excellent care. She will start to-morrow, with her only son, Raoul, to trespass on your hospitality; and I know that for my sake you will kindly welcome them. Their position is as wretched as can be met with anywhere, although they have every advantage that birth, wealth, talents, and fair looks can confer. Another opportunity is afforded of displaying your acute penetration. Bring back joy to the poor mother's sorrowing heart, and you will doubly deserve the blessings of the poor.

"Ever, dear Doctor, &c. &c."

"It seems, from the last paragraph," remarked Dr. Assandri, "that Raoul is the invalid, and needs my aid. The duke is silent as to the nature of his malady; whatever it is, we shall soon learn."

"Poor young man!" murmured Susan, with an emotion she could not account for.

The day swiftly passed in preparations, and they were beginning to fear that no one would come that evening, when the doctor perceived in the distance a vessel bearing in their direction, manned by Royal Marines; and, knowing the Duc de Givry to be a rear-admiral, he felt certain that the lady and gentleman, whom he could discern on the deck by the aid of his telescope, must be the marchioness and her son. As the vessel swiftly and gracefully advanced on the smooth and beautiful waters before them, the doctor and his daughter hastened to the shore, anxious to welcome their approaching guests.

The Marchioness of Aurebonne (for she it was) was apparently about forty, but still a very handsome, pleasing-looking woman, with one of those ingenuous countenances whose expression goes straight to the heart. On scrutinizing her features there might be traced a nervous, anxious look, which became more intense whenever her eyes fell on her son. But this anxiety seemed almost constitutional, so little had it robbed her form of its embonpoint, or her cheek of its freshness. There are some natures so strong and robust, that no mental sorrow appears to touch them-like the sturdy oak, that allows the storm to carry away its leaves, whilst it preserves unscathed the vigorous beauty of its trunk and branches.

The likeness was striking between the marchioness and her son. On beholding them you would have taken them for brother and sister. They both had a profusion of black hair, broadly-shaped shoulders, and a general air of health and strength. However, Raoul's countenance, instead of betraying, like his • mother's, a feverish anxiety, was characterized by an expression of listlessness and ennui. All these observations were made by Dr. Assandri in a much briefer time than we have taken to record them.

After the salutations usual on such occasions, the doctor made a sign to Susan to offer her arm to the marchioness, who accepted it courteously. The doctor carried off Raoul, and, under the pretence of banishing all formality, seized his hand, and took the opportunity of feeling his pulse, which he discovered to be perfectly regular; and, although he had been for more than two hours at sea, his respiration was as free as if he had just quitted his room-nothing about him indicated the invalid. All these symptoms, in conjunction with the duke's letter, created a world of conjecture in the doctor's mind. Twilight, in the climate of Hyères, is very short, and, by the time they had reached Dr. Assandri's pretty residence, the shades of evening had completely overtaken them.

Immediately on arriving, Dr. Assandri conducted the marchioness to her room, where she found a bright fire awaiting her, and where, in a few minutes, Jeannette appeared, bringing in a simple but substantial supper, to which our new-comers did ample justice. Dr. Assandri then rose to take his leave, saying, as he did so, "that his first prescription to every patient was a 'Good night.'" At the foot of the stairs he met Susan.

"How do you like the marchioness?" inquired the doctor.

"Very much," was the reply; "for her manner has all the kind cordiality of that of an old acquaintance. But what, papa, do you think of Monsieur Raoul?" added Susan, in a lower tone.

"That he is a very handsome fellow," answered her father, rather abruptly. "Rely upon it, there's some mystery connected with him, for in all my long thirty years' practice I have never been requested to prescribe for a patient in such sound health!"

II.

The sun had not long risen on the following morning, when Raoul d'Aurebonne got up and threw open his casement to gaze upon the splendid panorama that lay before him, but which the previous evening's darkness had obscured; and scarcely had he cast on it an admiring glance ere he was spell-bound by the beauty of a young girl playing with a gazelle on the lawn beneath his window. The forms of both were so symmetrical, and their every movement and attitude so full of ease and grace, that they constituted. just such a picture as an artist would delight in transferring to his canvas. How lovely! how lovely !" muttered Raoul; and then, as if suddenly pierced by some torturing thought, hastily closed the window, and flung himself into an arm-chair, where, covering his face with both his hands, he exclaimed, in a tone of heart-rending agony, " Of what avail is anything to me? What is Nature and all her splendour, woman and all her grace, to one who has but two years to live?"

In the meantime, the doctor and the marchioness were strolling in some shady and secluded walk, enjoying the early freshness of a lovely morning, whilst the lady was telling her story.

It was as follows:

The Marquis d'Aurebonne (the marchioness's husband) had died of consumption at the early age of twenty-four. The marquis's father had also died at the same age, of the same malady; and, indeed, for many and successive generations had one or more of Raoul's ancestors in the male line died of a pulmonary disease: it invariably developed itself at the same age, and as surely terminated fatally. Madame d'Aurebonne, as a girl, had acted like many others, and had become

engaged to the marquis, without giving a thought either to the past or the future. The marquis was of noble lineage, and enormously rich, whilst she belonged to an impoverished family, but one as ancient as her husband's. Her parents, dazzled by the worldly advantages such an alliance offered, had never disclosed to her the secret of the marquis's fatal inheritance, which, even during his courtship, had cast its shade on his pallid brow. She had not the slightest suspicion of it until within a few hours of her marriage, and it was then too late to retreat. She felt it was impossible to break off the match, almost at the last minute, without giving her reason for so doing, and this would have been to wound his feelings too deeply, too cruelly. So she resolved on this union, and on devoting her beauty, youth, and health to one on whom Death had already set his seal.

Thus an existence of self-immolation had commenced for the marchioness. Raoul d'Aurebonne was completely the reverse of his father, for he was as active and vigorous as the marquis had been languid and inert. The marchioness exhausted every device that a mother's tenderest love could suggest, to hide from her son the melancholy auspices under which he had been born. But if there is a family secret, one which every member strives to conceal, some imprudent person is sure to reveal it on the first fitting opportunity. Raoul was barely a youth before he knew all. The disclosure had no effect on his health-it laid hold of his imagination; and one of his chief sources of delight was to listen to some old and garrulous domestic, who related every circumstance, even the most trivial, connected with his father's and grandfather's death.

In a short time, Raoul convinced himself that his own days were numbered, and that, like his ancestors, he was doomed to die, at the age of twenty-four. This terrible idea daily gained ground, and, acting on an ardent nature, completely paralysed his mind: instead of pursuing his studies with all the eagerness and perseverance of former days, he was easily discouraged, and soon he abandoned what had most delighted him. A sort of moral malady seized on him; this malady seemed to be the forerunner of one still more fatal! Raoul loved his mother passionately, and she idolized him. The strong affection that unites, in such close and tender bonds, mothers left widows at an early age, and only sons, was to the marchioness but another, and a very fertile, source of grief. She spared no expense to amuse and occupy her son's mind, and to banish from his imagination its dark foreboding. But, unhappily, she was herself keenly pursued by the same dread, and, despite of every endeavour, she occasionally betrayed it.

We must all, more or less, have observed how powerful suspicion is in the breasts of those who believe themselves afflicted with some fatal malady; and how painfully apt they are in seizing upon every one's look or word that may tend in any way to confirm their apprehensions. Thus all the poor mother's efforts to destroy her son's fearful conviction entirely failed. Wherever Raoul expressed a desire to go, he went, and Madame d'Aurebonne accompanied him. They had resided in every capital in Europe; they had drunk the waters of all the most celebrated spas; and the marchioness had left no means untried to divert her son's mind, and calm his imagination. But all was vain. She had neither succeeded in recovering her own tranquillity, nor in restoring that of Raoul.

Dr. Assandri listened to this recital with the deepest attention, and, after a long pause, asked Madame d'Aurebonne the age of her son.

"Twenty-two and a few months," she replied.

"Have you ever had occasion to remark, within the last two or three years, any of those symptoms that preceded the death of his father and grandfather?"

"Never; but, on the contrary, from his childhood he has always given every proof of health, vigour, and life. Indeed, there have been occasions when, borne away by the impulse of the moment into gay forgetfulness, he has performed prodigies of strength. But, if he caught my eye watching him with a look expressive of either joy or hope, he would start, as if suddenly remembering that

there was no hope for him. He is incessantly reminding me, by some unpitying word, look, or gesture, of this one rooted fancy. It seems to create another bond of union between us; but a fatal bond, similar to the chain whose galling links bind two felons to the same labour and the same sorrow."

"Unhappy mother !" exclaimed the doctor, deeply touched.

"Ah! unhappy, indeed!" returned Madame d'Aurebonne, with gloomy energy. "Unhappy beyond all conception! Each time that I meet my son's eyes, a secret anguish passes from his heart to mine; this belies the few frivolous words that we exchange. I know every thought of his soul, and he can read the inmost recesses