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The sleepy little parish in the pro rinoe of Quebec, seemed, like Raaseln's happy valley, shut uut from all the world. Beyond the hilU, I told my- Klf, mankind knew biiterness, defeat- ad hopes, broken faith, dreams gone astray, Imc on this hither side such sadness could not come. I glanced half enviously at the peaceful village ly- ing in the sun. I had paused near the nxde Calvary on the bank above the noisy stream and I now discovered that a. woman was standing at its foot. Bhe had evidently finished her prayer, tor she slipped her rosary into her pocket and turned toward me with the ready smile of her people. I made some comment upon the soft beauty of the day. From where we stood we could see the gleaners at work in the fields, and an occasional snatch of song or borst of laughter was borne to uA on the still air. "It Is a spot that knows no sorrow," I said. My companion, who was not a young woman, followed my glance. "It is a happy people," she answer- ed slowly, "like the children, bmt there Is no spot where sorrow comes not, m'sieu', save in the blessed hea- vens. I've seen heart-breaJc so cruel here the sun has never been so bright since that day." "Tell me about it." I urged. She made a gesture of assent and invited me to a seat on the bank. "It was long ago," she l»gan, after a moment's reflection; "so long that if you ask them yonder about M. le cure they'll think you mean the cure who lives by the church â€" a very good man â€" but I don't meau'him, I mean the Abbe Moreauiâ€" a very good man likewise, save for one sin. Ah! m'sieu', who of ua hivs aot one sin and more? The good God sees and I think he is not so hard with us as we are with each other. Maisâ€" I don't knowâ€" I am only an old woman. "Well, nobody oan tell you that story like meâ€" nobody knows. But I don't forget, it's all deal- as if it was yes- terday when it hapijened. It l)egins with Narcisse Duplan, the same who killed himself, aa m'sieu' h;is heardâ€" no ? It was twcause of Marie his wife â€" she ran away and left him, and then it wEui the sam<> aa if the sun hcul gone out of the sky for Narcisse. He grew so dull; whore he came the laugh and the song, they vanished like amuke. We were sorry â€" oh, yes I â€" but your neighbor's sorrow don't make miuch difference to you after all, m'sieu', it don't last long, and bimeby wo forwot. Marie wasn't worth re- membering anyhow, aud so we told Narcisse, but the winds will heed your voice sooner thuD will a man \s ho love3. He knows no reason, and poor Narcisse had none at all. So one day th«!re was an enJ to his sorrow, â€"he stopped it all with his knifeâ€" like this. He left no money, no land, no- thing tut his little girl Margot, and what to do with her was the one great qudstion. Nobody was willing to take her â€" children were plenty in Beau- pre and every year there were more here and the fields and the brook- more coming. Nobody wanted this child â€"nobody had cared for the mother aud maybe the child would grow up like her. 'i'ben the cure said to me : " "Miulame Rose, there is no child to make sunshine in your house â€" let this little one come in.' "And I answered: "'Pardon. M. le cure, what do I care for Marie Duplan's child/ The mother is a bad woman. My husband told me that many times before he died. She made Sylvestre Laroque the same as crazy with love for her, she ruined Jean I'revost's home, she broke her father's heart, aud now she's gone away with tlie Engli-sbiuan aud that poor fool Narcisse is dead. " 'S'pose my house is lonely, I can- not do what you ask. Onoe there was a little child hei-e that I loved more than all the worldâ€" oh I you know M. le cure â€"and the Lord took her. 1 want no other child in her place, I only want her l>ack again â€" my arms are empty without her.' "So he had to take Margot himself, and he carried her all the way to 'the man.se. She wasn't afraid, she just olung to him close; she was alwut five years old then and not big for her ago. Was she pretty f Par ex- emple ! Maybe there were prettier children in the iKirish, I don't know. She was l)etter than pretty, she hadâ€" how do you call it ? â€"charm. Beauty is a very nice thing, m'sieu', and the woman that has it is like a careful soldier always well arm- ed, but it is as quiok to depart as the rose itselfâ€" fire, fever, the years, and behold! it is gone. That other stay still the end. Margot's mother had it too, in her low voice and her soft eyes and in the heart that knows no age. If Narcisse Duplan left noth- ing to his child. Marie was more gen- «roujs with her gifts. "It don't |9eem very long, those twelve years that Margot lived at the manse, but they made some differ- ence. Not with the cure, but with her. She was like her mother,just as fair to look upon. When she passed, all the .voung men felt their hearts beat faster. Only she was not the aame as her mother, for she seemed Bot to see them. Then one day she came to tell us good-bye. She was going to teach in a village yonder, and she was both glad and sorry to leave Beaupre, and the amiles and tears were on har face same like the sky in April. Oh I sh» would be back again some time, she said. But I thought maybe when that sometime comes many will not be hero. Who knows! It's like that in this world, and so it ain't all easy to say good-bye. Truly I sorrowed most to let her go; the others had their husbands and children and thought not deep of her, but al- ways I must think that she might have been with nje all the days making sun- shine like the core said, and I missed herâ€" missed her. "Well, he missed her too. How do I know that * If your little child goes away, m'sieu', don't you sorrow for her ? Ain't the world a sad place without her ? The cure is only a man like other men. I told my- self when I saw how his face grew white and whiter. He was very good to us then, and he smiled just as oft- en as before â€" only his smile hart, be- cause you felt it was like a cloak drawn up over a big sore that you wanted to heal and were not able. Margot wrote t)ack long letters about bow nice she found the school and how sweet the children were. And she said too. there was no spot like Beaupre after allâ€" it was the very heaven of the world. She loved all the people she said she heard its voice all the time and it called, 'Come back â€" come back." "The cure read it all out to us and he shotved us the letters besides. I never saw anything more beautiful than those letters, and he seemed so pleased when I told him that, be- cause it was he who taught her from the very beginning And he said: " 'She was a good pupil, Madame Rose. No man ever had so good a pu- pil. No man in the whole world is prouder of her than I am.' And then he went away and walked â€" walked. "I know something how he felt, for sure. When my little girl died I couldn't stay in the house; I couldn't bear the emptiness and the stillness, and I didn't want to come back to ii, because it was so lonely without her. And when I saw the cure al- ways walking in the fields and over the hills 1 told myself, 'Voila! the house is empty for him too, poor man.' "He grew very still, and then the smile didn't come so quick to his face â€" it had disappeared. Sometimes â€" most oftenâ€" he'd pass by the men and wo- nj«'n as it they were but stones, and he h-id no word for the children run- ning out to m<et him. Well, the peo- ple said for e;icT]se he had migraine perhaps, Injt when there came no change they thought he had the fev- er Ijeraiuse his eyes were strange and dull, and they were afraid. Il'hen I said to them : " 'He misses Margot. Any father would miss his child and M. le cure was the same as her father. And she is Margotâ€" nobody could know her without loving her. Bimeby he'll grow all right, because time will cure him. Time cures everything. You cut your- self and no matter if you lose much blood the akin comes together again. It's the same with the heart. It cracks mayl'je, but little by little, lit- tle by little, the edges come together â€"it gets itself mended. It uiu't so good as it wua, but it will do ! Don't I know what I sjieak I Ain't my heart cracked-like this very long time, hein f "The people listened to me, anil they said 1 was right and they would wait patiently until the cure was healed. Cut what do you think? M. le cure got no Ijetter. In all weather he walked as if he wasn't able to keep still. And there wiia nobody to hear confession. The church stood lempty day after dayâ€" day after dayâ€" and the whole village I)eg6in to murmur. Then one Sunday, when everybody had gone to church, the doors were shut and a little card was banging there. .VI- phonse Seguinâ€" he's Bapliste's father, m'sieu', and he's too old to work/ in the fields nowâ€" he took the card and read how there woaldn't be any service that day. Well, for sure, the people were very angry. "All that week long the cure did juat as I've been telling yuu. but when .Sunday came again there was no card on tho church doors; they stood open wid<! and the iwople â€" so many people â€" went through. 1 never saw .so many â€"everybody. 111 tie and big, was there. It was very still in the church and we wailed a loux time, but bimeby the cnire came in. He w:u* all in black and his face was so while, and somehow it didn't seem as large as tetore. He walked to the altar steps, th-n he turned and looked at us all; so he stood for maybe twoâ€" three minutes. It seemed like an hour, and it was so uuiet I could hear Angele Prevost's breath came puffâ€" puff, and she was 'way behind me, but I knew that sound. "Then he said, very soft : " 'My peopleâ€"' "There was a little stir among u.s like I he noise ypu hear when you throw a stone into the hedge and the birds fly up scared, then it was still again in a moment and be stiid once more : " 'My people, it is a long time that 1 have known you all and you are very dear to my heart, and maybe wh(>n I tell you good-bye you will feel sorry as I do. For I come this morning not to preach, not to hear confessionâ€" no, it is I who make confession, aud then I go.' "Everybody moved quick, but the cure didn't stop, he just kept on in that same gentle voice: " 'It makes it easier if I tell you a story, because we are the same as the children, we all like stories. Very well, then! there Wiis a priest once who lived in a beautiful little parLsh, and he was very fond of his people and they loved him too, so he thought he would stay with them always. And that made ^im very happy. Then one day, beoause of his abundance, he adopted a small child, tihe had no father nor mother, and was all alone in the world. Well, for sure, that made some difference ! Other days when that priest got home he used to ahut himself in his room with is book, but now be cared no longer for his books. It was the sajne as if bis house, which was always a pleasant ptftce, was aet right down in paradise, so much, SQ very mucib more beautiful DOTTED -MUSLIN WAIST. The waist illuatrated is of light blue dotted muelLn. The fronts are compos- ed of alternate groupa of three tucks and bands of cream Valenciennes in- sertion, anid are trimmed at intervals wirth five lengtbwi.se frills of lace to match the insertion, one set down the mjjddle and two on eithieP aids aa illus- trated. The ]Mck \a pleated in three box pleats. The neok ia finished with ai .standing collar, which is trimmed with two pointed taba edged with lace frills. The sleeves are trimmed from tlM top to th>« wrist with liandfi of in- sertion and clusters of tucks. did it become. And that was just lie- cause a little child was there. I said that priest loved his people liefore, but truly he loved them not so tenderly aa hie loved them now. Very often in those other times he thoiu^bt them stu- pid and he lost patience with them, but now he was more gentle and ho just thought of them as children â€" Ucid's childrenâ€" and he couMn't be angry with them. Then he told him- self. "Now I understand how the good God loves us." And it was his love for the child that showed him the way. "'The years ^tood not still with that man and little girl. They lx>th grew older, and the love lietween them grew too, till there was nothing sweet- er in the whole world. The priest taught that little child out of the lxx)ks and her mind was_ like .some lovely flower, and she tatt-,?ht him, too, so that everywhere he looked be- neath the sin aud sorrow he found something gooil and fair. But there came a day when It all seemed very dark to him, and I'll tell you about that time. The little child was a young girl now njid she went away to teach the children in another vill- age. He let her go l>ecause he thought it> was for her hippiness, and she was a ward of the church ami the bishop anii others said it was l)e.sL. lie seem- ed glad, like everybody, bec'tuse of her gorxt fortune, but he was no more glad when she had gone and he came back to the manse. It was so lonely. Kverywhore he saw her face and he thought he heard her voice- First it was like the voice of a child sing- ing "Dors-tu bien" to her doll; then ii; grew older an<l it Siiid the 'rith- metic tables and s|M)lled the words; then it grew older still and it wasn't so loud, but it was the same voiiw, and he heard her say. "Good-night, fath- er." .Vndwhen she thi;ughl he wouldn't tell him good-nighl any more, he put his ixands up> so anil he cried, "Oh I my Uod. I miss my child â€" I want my child!' " 'So ho sorrowed many days; he went into the fields, and everywhere she went with him in bis mind. He felt her little fingers in his hand, and he heard the ptitter of her feet running to keep up by bis side, and sometimes he carried her as he used to when sho was five, or si-v, or maybe seven years old. Pretty soon she was able to keep up and very often sho would run far, far ahead and would laugh at him when he didn't catch her. The priest made pictures like that, but bimebyâ€" and this was very stran'reâ€" it wasn't any longer the little child he thought so much alwut. When he turned his head it wasn't to look far down where a little child would .stahd â€"he only looked just so far anl he saw her face there with the shining eyes and the blush of a wild rose in her cheeks. It was so he thought of j her. It was not the child, it was the , young girl. "'And one day he looked do\vii and Iwcajjse the face wasn't really there he groaned, out aloud. It was all clear to him. He loved herâ€" and he waa a priest of Cod. He loved her as you men love your wives, he loved her as you women love your husbiinrtsâ€" he couldn't live without ber. He went IjacJt to bis house, but .she wa.sn'l there; he went out into the fields, but .she wasn't there. He couldn't pray â€"al- ways in his prayers her face wou'd comeâ€" he was only able to ask for one thing. " "Then he knew he wasn't tit to guide his i)eople any more. He kept away from the church, he spent long days beneath God's sky and he tried not to think of the happiness th.it you know, but it (vvos impossible to put that dream aside. He only asked to live a little time in the sau, ho want- ed a place thereâ€" he was not so old, not so much more than forty. Then he told himself, "I'll be a priest no long- er," and he wTote to the bishop that he renounced his vows â€" ' I "The cure stopped talking and stood very still with his head dropijed on his breast; pre.sently he straightened himself and looked around at us all. " 'Pray for me,' he said at last, ^ 'pray for me. I am he that I have j told you about. I have sent that letter i â€"I have fors<jLk«n my parish. Soon I ] go to see Margot and I w-ill say to | her, "Child, I cannot live without I you. I am no longer a priest. I ; want to marry you. Will you come I withi me »" And I thinkâ€" I thinkâ€" she I will say yes. I don't know, but there | is something here which tells me she will say yes. Good-bye, my people. Good-bye. my children." "Then he turned and went swiftly from run like a shadow; he made no sign of the cross- he didn't seem to see anything. We heard his steps on the stone floor and the door closed to aud then there was no more sound in the church, save only some uuuien cry- ing. "P'rhaps yon think, 'maieu', we said something, hein f Uuit we bad no words and nobody looked at his neighbor. I liked that. Why should we look at oar neighbor ? S'pose we had thought be- cause the cure stood so near God with our sins he was different from usâ€" that only showed our ignorance. He was no more than a man and we couldn't blame him. It was the fault of Marie Duplan's childâ€" she wasn't I like her mother for nothing. But nobody said a word In the church, it I seemed too great a sin. Bimeby Al- j phonse Seguin went out on tiptoe and I then Jules Perrot went too, and aft- I er that every one of us till we all I stood in the sunshine. Truly it was I no longer quiet then. EveryUjdy wiis sorry for M. ile cure .ind every lx)dy blamed Margot, Then what do you think, m'sieu' 1 Mere Angele she up- braided meâ€" me. She said, 'Kose iliche- let, if you had taken Margot this had not happened!' She said other cruel things Itesides, and the rest said them likeivise. "Well, I went home quick, I can tell you. I didn't want to hear their voices. But the voice in my heart said the same words, and 1 knew it siKike true. But I could do nothing. I'he bi.shop was angry with M. le cure and God was angry. It was too late. The cure ha<l given up every- thing â€" God and 4 he church â€" for the sake of a little girl, and I was the real one to'blame. So I sat there all alone and wept, aud presently the door behind me was opened very gently. I didn't more, for 1 thought it wa'4unly the wind, but soon I heard some- one say: "'Madame Rose.' "I looked round scared and there stood Margot. I thought I was dreaming, but no I it was she â€" and yet it was no more the same Margot I used to know. She was no longer a girl, she was a woman, and her face was all white as if she suffered miseries. I put ux) my hands to keep her off â€" I didn't want her near me â€" rt was she who hul brought all this sorrow and shame to Beaupre. She shrank back th.-n as if 1 had hurt her, aud she cried : "'Oh! i nave uu either place to go, madame. There was another place, but 1 cannot go there now, IVe walked males and miles this daj. I was in trouble, but the more close 1 came to Beaupre, the minu dastant seemed my cures, till at last they disapi>eared. When 1 reached the church 1 thought: " Kvcrylxxlj is in thereâ€" I will go there too. They will lie glad to sue me again. And afterwards I will go to the manse, and M. le euro and Ursula â€" oh! they 11 l)e uitire thiUli hippy to have me with them onoe more.' So t crept into thie church; and it seemed like some fete duy that 1 didn't rememlxjr, there was so many i>eople. But it was very still ; there was no music â€" noth- ing I Then I saw my dear M. le cure standing by the 3t<>p8 of the altar and â€" aud 1 heard every word he said. And my hieajrt leaped in my breast, amd thiBU I understood â€" never mind what. 1 heard th; woman sob, but I didn't weep. Why should I- weep? All Ihe saiuie I stole away ; I wanted to be where I could think. 1 went along by the brook till 1 came to the Calvary and 1 waited tht^re in the bushes. I was hapi)yâ€" oh ! never so happy as then. 1 wanted to run to the man.'se, but some thing held me back, and 1 told myself I must watt till my heiirt went not so quick. Aud 1 thought I'd go in a lit- tle while and I'd knock very soft on thi3 study door, but M.- le cure would know that knock anywhere. He'd throw the door open wide and he'd cry, "It is Margot â€" eaterâ€" hasten I" Just to think of that made my heart ga fast- fast â€" and 1 knew it would take too long for it to grow slow and calm again, but when 1 would have left my hiding- place some people stopped near me and I beard them say It was all my fault that the cure had given up everything, that Uod would never pardon hijn., and then they cursed me. Well, 1 didn't know what to do then. 1 wasn't able to think very plainâ€" there was so much noiaeâ€" the brook and the birds seemed to mock at me. Bijueby I told my- self, " 1 will ask Madame Rose ta help me.' I don't want harm to come to the cure. What must I do I" "She stopiied speaking and looked at me with thoaa soft skres of iters. " 'You must oever see him again," I , said ; " you must go away where ha can't find you.' "'And then what will happen?' she asked. "'Why,' I said. "I don't know fofl sura, but I thidi the bishop will talk with M. le cure and give him soma penance and M. le cure will do it aud ao get baok his peace one day." " ' And what ia for me ?' she asked. " I couldn't tell, m'sieu', so there wiia no more speech between us for awhile. Soon she began talking again, and sha sai'd: " 'I have no longer any school. Thera is an old man in tile parish yonder who wanted to nuirry me. He has much money and the people there think lia ia a granil man â€" me, I know different. I cannot marry him, and so 1 told him many times. Money and lands won't satisfy a woman's heart, madame. They can't buy hapi)LuesH. Well, he was very angry when I tried to make that clear and he said be would fix me sure â€" I shouldn't teach the school longer. So he told them all it wasn't right for ma t<) be with tbu children; that I wasn't fit. Hie knew all about my mother â€" oh I she did much wrong my mother â€" and he made up very .shameful storiea besides, about me and one Antoina Marcel, because I t(x>k bis flowers and ! when he went away forever I wept for i bis grief. He loved me, madame, very I true, that Antoine, but I cared not for him either; my heart was here in Beau- pre all the while. But the people be- lieved those stories and they would- n't let me stay. So that is why I come 'home, and â€" Iâ€" have â€" noâ€" home I' " ' No,' I said. ' you hava no houM here.' " Then m'sieu', it was plain in ona great flash how the cure could he sav- ed tor th<! church. " ' Hold,' I criied to Margot ; write a letter to M. le cure, write it quick and I will l)ear It to him. Tell him yoa don't like the stupid life of the villiiga an<l so you go to see the world with some one who is young and gay.' â- â-  ' But, madame,' she interrupted, that ain't true. I cannot tell that He. I cannot have my dear cure think ^ me like that. I 1o\'b him as he lovea me.'' ^ " ' There is no other way to save bins and save his soul,' I said. ' Va t lb will be but a little puin. .S'pose it is a lis. wo women, can't always say what la 'â-  true â€" we must think of others and keep I back whnt will be for their harm if WB love them.' " Sho stood stiU and warred witll herself, and once she almost fell, so I pushed her into a ehiir by the table, Ibun finally she said: "' I will do what you bell me. only I'm a good woman, inadaone. I'll al- ways Iw a good woman." " 1 br'juglxL ibk! writing things to ber and she sat and tluiugbt a long tima before .she began to write. She tora up mueb good paper and she wrota again and again ; when she had fin- ishetl at last she read me the letter. It wasn't very long and she said in it that what the pe<iplo yonder spoke of hi'r was truo ; and it was true, too, what they couldn't tell him, that "ha was very happy Ijecause she knew what love was. She meant always to be haiv py aud gay in the w irld and she would- nt ever see lunx again. That made her sorry, but only a little, for .she hadn't time to think much of ih" ol 1 life. Then sh/J said giioil-liye. When shf came to IJV! end she kiasfvl the paper many tiiujes liefore slie gave it to me. " ' Will ho understand ?" she wbia- Ptered. " 'Yes,' I answipred. "What?' she u.sked. 'will he under- stand that?" " ' N'),' I said very firm, 'he will ju.'jt think you are Marie Duplan's cbilJ and that will cure him." " 'Oh, tiod !' she sobbed, 'how can I let hiin think me like that â€" how can I?' " I was very sorry for Marsrot, m'- sieu', but what would you ? Tha cure must l)e saved. He had not yet left the nian.iw! when I reached there, and J handed him th> letter myself. He ffid- n't ask any questions ; h • just ogiened it and read it, maylie two. three times, as if the writing wasn't easy to mnkfc out. Then be went past me very quick and cloijed thJ door of his room, but t saw*his face and 1 understxiod. "ft was late ivhen 1 got home and Margot still sat by the table. She rais- e<l h'T boiwl when ! came In and I saw the heart-lireak in h'^r face too. The pnin of it hurt me shirp like the blow with a knite. I had looked on sorrow that day. I b.ad never seen such sorrow liefore, and never once since that time. But all the same I think it was Ihe cure who was wounded the deepest, lieojiuse he must tell himself that Mar- got had failed hinn every way. " As for h»r, m'sieu', T wanteil to keen her with me always, only that couldn't \x. She wiis like a pure lit- tle dove â€" r ijay that and I know all nbout lv:'r mother. T can .say nothing else, for I "have looked into her e.ves and have tvfin the whiteness of her soul. But thrre could lie no home for her in Beauiire and si she went away into the. night; and sh- said, the last thing. ' Pray for me. madame, pray for me.' That is all. 1 don't know any- thing more about hcrâ€"sho never came back." " And the cure f" "The cure, m'sieu'? It -was like I thought. The bi.shop gave him a long pen.inee. he went t.o the Silent Broth- erb')od. and he stayed thpre many years they say. He never came to Heaupre ngn in. Perha[i8 ho is dead, perhaps ho lives â€" T know not. But hi is pardoned, that I know All the people prayed for him. and the good God heard those prayers for sure." • ^ THP: NERVOUS SYSTEM. The nervous system, says Prof. W. H. Thomson, has a greater store of re- serve vitality than all the other bodily systems together, and is the only tex- ture that does not lose weight in death by starvation or other cau.se. ft ia the last to grow old. As to the mind, it need not grow old at all. provided it lie supplied with the mighty stimulus called interest, by which it will grow steadily, eVen while lione and sinew are wasting through age.