sister, the situation of concierge in the Hotel Marboeuf, in the Rue Grange-Bateliere.  I entered on my new place yesterday evening, and was desired to awaken the gentleman on the third floor at seven o’clock.  When I entered the room to do so, you were asleep, but before I had time to speak you awoke, and I recognized your features in the glass.  Knowing that I could not vindicate my innocence if you chose to seize me, I fled, and seeing an omnibus starting for St. Denis, I got on it with a vague idea of getting on to Calais, and crossing the Channel to England.  But having only a franc or two in my pocket, or indeed in the world, I did not know how to procure the means of going forward; and whilst I was lounging about the place, forming first one plan and then another, I saw you in the church, and concluding you were in pursuit of me, I thought the best way of eluding your vigilance was to make my way back to Paris as fast as I could; so I set off instantly, and walked all the way; but having no money to pay my night’s lodging, I came here to borrow a couple of livres of my sister Claudine, who lives in the fifth story.”

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the dying man; “that sin is off my soul!  Natalie, dear wife, farewell!  Forgive, forgive all!”

These were the last words he uttered; the priest, who had been summoned in haste, held up the cross before his failing sight; a few strong convulsions shook the poor bruised and mangled frame; and then all was still.

And thus ended the Young Advocate’s Wedding Day.

A MURDER IN THE TIME OF THE CRUSADES.

There is, perhaps, no country or climate more beautiful than England, as seen in one of its rural landscapes, when the sun has just risen upon a cloudless summer’s dawn.  The very feeling that the delightful freshness of the moment will not be entirely destroyed during the whole day, renders the prospect more agreeable than the anticipated fiery advance of the sun in southern or tropical lands.  Exhilaration and gladness are the marked characteristics of an English summer morning.  So it ever is, and so it was hundreds of years ago, when occurred the events we are about to narrate.  How lovely then, on such a morning as we allude to, looked that rich vale in the centre of Gloucestershire, through which the lordly Severn flows!  The singing of the birds, the reflective splendor of the silvery waters, the glittering of the dew as it dazzled and disappeared—­all combined to charm sound, sight, and sense, and to produce a strong feeling of joy.  But the horseman, who was passing through this graceful scene, scarcely needed the aid of any external object to enhance the pleasurable sensation that already filled his breast.  The stately horse on which he sat, seemed, by its light steps, and by ever and anon proudly prancing, to share in the animation of its rider.  So, the noble stag-hound that followed, and continually looked up contentedly at its master,