futurity; the young girls whom He reserves for the good of the human race, to mother a Saviour, or transform the seed of a ploughman into the soul of a hero.
Marcélite entered the room and stood silently waiting, looking, thinking how best to carry out her intentions. "Mamzelle Marie!" She did not speak as the authoritative nurse to her charge; she was the humble servant of a future madame.
"Oh, Marcélite! the thoughts,—the thoughts one has!" It was so good to lay her head once more on the shoulder that had cradled her, a baby! so good to feel that soft, dark hand caressing her as it had caressed her all through life! For a moment she had felt strange and lonely in this glimpse of the new, foreign future. "Marcélite, do you know what it is to love? When I think of it, you know, ma bonne, I am glad that my—that Monsieur Motte did not live." How happy she must have been to pronounce that name again! "I wanted to die at first, I wanted it to kill me; but it is all gone,—that feeling," laying her hand on her heart and making gratuitous confession. "Think; if he had
