face did not fill Margot's basket; with a sigh she remembered her errand, and striving to force back the treacherous blushes, she came forth from her hiding place and stood at the foot of the ladder upon which Jacques was at work.

Jacques had little time for bright eyes and soft cheeks; there was more serious work for a wise gardener to do. But when he saw the sweet face beneath him and looked into the depths of the beautiful eyes upturned to his, he thought of the picture of the Virgin Mary in the painted window at church, and recalled with a mixture of angry wonder, the jests flung at this fair child by her companions of the night before. What need had she, with her gentle face, of silver earrings or gold beads to win a husband? It was well for the bold Angèle to talk of such things, thought the indignant young gardener, as he went about filling Margot's basket with roses and heliotrope from his fragrant store.

When the basket was heaped to overflowing, Jacques turned and broke off a cluster of half-open roses. "Give them to the Holy Mother for me," he said simply, laying them on top of the others in the basket.

Margot was too overpowered to speak, but Jacques must have been hard to please indeed, if her happy, blushing face were not thanks enough. How could Margot speak when she could scarcely breathe for joy? It was so wonderful that Jacques should think of her. Was he not thinking of her, though he did say the flowers were for the Holy Mother? Margot, as soon as she was out of the hot-house, hid the precious flowers in her bosom, and when her work was done, she laid them warm and moist from her heart, upon the altar, as Jacques had bid her do. And Jacques--the wise Jacques-mixed up pansies and soft eyes, and roses and bright cheeks in a dreadful way all that day. Would it be such a wonder if the apple-sprig should blossom after all?

From that day forth, the little white

statue in Margot's room was never without an offering of fresh flowers; each morning, when Jacques had filled Margot's basket, he gave her a cluster of sweet roses, for which she had learned to thank him--in the name of the Holy Mother--with a smile and a glance from her deep-fringed eyes.

One morning--it was two months now since Margot plucked the apple-sprig-Jacques gathered a deep red rose and placing it with a tiny spray of forget-me-not, he looked tenderly into Margot's wondering eyes and said:

"Wilt thou not take these flowers for thyself, Margot?"

And Margot--happy, trembling, bewildered Margot--what could she do but clasp. Jacques's offering to her heart and answer his questioning eyes with the sweet secret in her own.

Like one dazzled from a wondrous dream, she picked up her basket and left the hothouse to climb up the broad marble steps that led to the château. The warm blushes had not yet faded from her cheeks; the lovelight from Jacques' eyes still beamed in her own, as the sunlight beams in the bosom of a gentle lake.

"Bon jour, my pretty Margot,” cried a sharp voice from the terrace above. "What dost thou hide so slyly in thy bosom?"

Margot started to see looking down upon. her the vicious black eyes of Angèle, the maid--Angèle, who made no secret of her love for the handsome gardener. She was too simple a child to speak falsely. "It is but a red rose Jacques has given me to lay on the altar of our Holy Mother," she answered, and passed quickly on.

"The little serpent," hissed Angèle between her sharp white teeth. "With all her blushing face and downcast eyes, she knows how to make the silent Jacques give her choice roses. For the Holy Mother! Bah! One does not love roses for the sake of the Holy Mother. Ha ha--my lady Margot, somebody's heart shall ache to-day."

Jacques stood where Margot had left him, with his grave head full of foolish dreams. Each leaf and flower as it stirred in the soft air, seemed to whisper to him, "Margot loves thee; Margot loves thee."

"Good-day to you, Monsieur Jacques." called a soft voice, while a dark face peeped roguishly from between a mass of starry jasmine.

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle Angèle," Jacques answered, hastening to busy himself amongst the flowers. He was too civil not to return a lady's greeting, but he loved none too well the forward lady's maid, who sought his company when his heart craved sweeter society, and forced soft words from his unwilling lips.

"You never have roses to give me, Jacques," Angèle said, with the air of a spoiled child, coming beside him to throw a melting glance into his face.

66

'Well, well, Monsieur Jacques," she said gaily, though you may not give me flowers, you cannot refuse when my lady, the Countess, asks for a red rose to place in her hair.

She has sent me to gather the richest and rarest that grows."

Jacques immediately laid down his pruning knife and hastened to where a group of roses lifted their lovely heads. They were blossoms coaxed to bloom in a foreign land, for none other than the great lady of the castle. Jacques, with tender care, gathered a glorious flower, with petals like crimson velvet and leaves of a wondrous green. Angèle laughed merrily, when he pierced his finger with a sharp thorn hidden beneath the treacherous leaves. She was thinking of a heart that would bleed deeper than Jacques's wounded finger.

Margot, with her flower safely hidden beneath her gray bodice, smiled and dreamed to herself all through the happy day. What cared she now for cruel words or sneering glances! so long as Jacques loved her, her heart was satisfied.

It was customary when work for the day was over, for the servants of the château to gather around a blazing fire in the great hall and pass the evening in lively converse. Margot, always deserted, sat in a distant corner, knitting gray stockings and happy thoughts together; when she looked up from her work, it was to meet a pair of tender blue eyes looking into her own and to know that somebody's heart was beating in unison with hers. This night, Margot, tremulous with her new-born joy, took the flowers from her bosom and fastened them in the belt of her dress. Though the blossoms were faded and scentless, Jacques would not care, for he would understand their message.

Filled with these sweet thoughts, Margot crept to her little corner and timidly lifted her eyes to see--ah me! the withered flowers; ah me! the bleeding heart--Angèle smiling by Jacques's side with a red rose in her hair.

The blood rushed from Margot's heart to her face, as blood rushes from a sudden wound. The thorns of the red rose pierced sharp and deep.

"See the rose in Angèle's hair," whispered a heartless companion in Margot's ear; "only Jacques can give such splendid flowers."

"Somebody's apple-sprig will blossom this year," said another, with a knowing glance.

Bowed under the awful shame, crushed by the cruel sorrow, Margot stole from the room. Up the long stairs she crept to her desolate chamber. There, throwing herself upon her knees, she begged the good God to let her die; for her life had become as withered as the flowers that drooped in her belt. The apple-sprig in the window pierced

Margot's heart anew with its sharp branches. No apple-sprig would ever bloom for Margot now. Angèle was the chosen one. Had not Jacques proved it by giving her the rarest of flowers that grew?

Who was to blame if Margot had taken the flowers Jacques had given her in simple kind-heartedness for the Holy Mother, and had woven them into a love-wreath for herself? Who was to blame but Margot's own weak, vain heart? Too well she knew it. Alas! she was suffering now for her folly; she would always suffer for it, though she might learn to hide the wound and bear the pain in silence. Henceforth, she would devote herself to the duties of her station, and would dream no more of earthly things. If Jacques still gave her flowers she would take them, because she had no right to refuse offerings to the Holy Mother; but she would wear them no more in her bosom; their perfume would never again be incense to a human heart. But the apple sprig should remain forever in the window to remind her of her folly.

Poor little Margot! her dream of love was short as sweet. Each day a red rose shone in Angèle's hair; each day Margot's face grew whiter and sadder, and her eyes were dim with tears. Angèle saw them, and her wicked soul danced for joy; Jacques saw them too, but Margot had no word or look for the young gardener now; and in the depth of his sorrowful heart, he said; "The gentle Margot cares naught for such a rough creature as I; the flowers I give her serve but to adorn the Holy Mother's altar; they speak no message to my little Margot's heart."

So the honest Jacques strove hard to hide his love; he gave Margot no more passionate roses or tender forget-me-nots, only simple flowers, such as saints and angels love.

Foolish Jacques! you can see the tiniest leaf of a budding flower; why can you not see the red rose in Angèle's black hair?

The weeks came and passed; the appletrees in the orchard were covered with leaves, the apple-trees in the hot-house were white with blossoms. Only the sprig in Margot's window hung barren as ever.

When Easter Sunday came with glad rejoicing, Margot arose with the early sun to deck the great urns and vases of the chateau, in readiness for the happy day. On her sorrowful way to the hot-house, whom should she meet coming towards her but Angèle, with a huge bunch of purple lilacs in her hand.

"Look!" she cried, waving the flowers triumphantly before Margot's eyes. 'See, what Jacques has given me; he has promised too that he will sit beside me at the feast to-night."

O, the cruel, false heart! Hidden amongst the lilacs was a spray of appleblossoms--a gift coaxed from the unwilling gardener for some treacherous purpose of the wily maid.

Angèle passed on, leaving behind her a delicate fragrance of spring and an innocent heart, crushed by the weight of those purple flowers. Margot struggled to hide her grief from Jacques's inquiring eyes, but the quivering lips, the fast-rising tears, betrayed her.

"Margot, Margot," Jacques cried tenderly as he seized her little trembling hands in his "thou hast some grief upon thy heart; let me help thee to bear it."

own;

But Margot snatched her hands away, and fled to hide her shame and sorrow in her lonely chamber. She could bear no more. Her love for Jacques was too deep and honest for frivolous pastime. To-morrow she would go back to the asylum--to the kind sisters who had guarded her childhood; and she would become the simple-hearted little Margot of yore.

That night there was to be a grand feast in the servants' hall, but Margot had little heart for gaiety. What was mirth to others, was heavy grief to her. How could she bear to see the triumph of Angèle smiling

into Jacques' dear face? Long she knelt on her knees to the good God, begging for strength to bear her trial; and when the hour came, she arose, and putting on her light blue skirt with its bodice of white muslin and black velvet girdle, she descended to the servant's hall.

"Margot," screamed a chorus of voices, as she entered the room, "thy apple sprig; why hast thou not brought thy apple sprig, as the rest of us have done ?"

Margot, bewildered at the sudden attack, stood speechless in the middle of the floor. "Quick, Margot, thy apple blossoms," came from a score of lips.

"I have no apple blossoms," Margot answered timidly.

"Menteuse," screamed the shrill voice of Angèle from the door way, in which she suddenly appeared. "Thou speakest an untruth; I myself saw thee pluck an apple sprig last Christmas eve."

"I have spoken the truth; the sprig has not blossomed," Margot replied simply.

"What of that ?" shrieked the heartless crowd. "Thou must fetch it all the same; art thou ashamed to confess there is to be no husband for thee this year?"

"Who knows, Margot," sneered the spiteful Angèle; "thou art so good and beautiful, who knows if the Holy Mother has not performed a miracle for thy sake? Go see if the sprig has not blossomed."

A deafening peal of laughter burst forth at these taunting words.

Thus pressed, Margot left the room on her pitiless errand.

How could there be apple blossoms on her sprig? Had she not seen it but a moment ago, hanging withered and brown in her lattice window? It was cruel of them all to force on her this new shame. Was it not disgrace enough to have her folly known, without exposing her confusion before that mocking crowd down stairs? Must she stand there and know Jacques's eyes were

upon her too? It was hard--very hard to bear.

Margot stood on the threshold of her little room; as she lifted her eyes to where the apple sprig hung in the window, a cry of wonder burst from her lips; the breath came quick and hard from her panting bosom. The humble brown twig, as it hung in the magic moonlight, looked as though covered with a wealth of fair blossoms. The more Margot gazed the more real they appeared to be, until it seemed to the unhappy child as though heaven itself had conspired to taunt her with a mocking vision. Awestruck by the thought, Margot crossed herself devoutly, and murmuring an Ave Maria under her. breath, she advanced fearfully into the room.

Still under the influence of her superstitious fears, she raised her hand for the withered branch hanging above her head. Holy Mother! what lay in Margot's trembling fingers? Not a withered apple sprig; not a leafless twig; but a branch of apple blossoms, fair as the driven snow; fragrant as the breath of heaven.

Too bewildered for a moment to think, Margot could only stand in speechless contemplation--as dumbfounded as though a cluster of stars had dropped into her handthen in a rush of sudden joy, the truth burst upon her.

"A miracle! A miracle!" she cried, flying down the steep steps and into the crowded servants' hall, "the apple sprig has blossomed!"

A yell of mocking laughter greeted Margot's words; from every side arose cries of "O la stupide!"-" Un miracle!"—"O la folle Margot!"

Above them all rose a sharper, shriller voice, "Un miracle, mon Dieu! Ask the brave Jacques to explain the miracle of the apple blossoms," it shrieked.

Like a flower in a hail-storm, Margot drooped beneath Angèle's cruel words. She

understood all now; Jacques had betrayed her; his was the hand that had struck this mortal blow. She would never lift her head again.

Dazed and speechless, she stood with the white blossoms crushed against her bosom; no words passed her quivering lips; no tears fell from the wide-open eyes. Little Margot's heart was broken.

Suddenly a voice, clear and deep as a church-bell, rang out above the confusion of shrill laughter and chattering tongues.

"Cowards!" it cried, and the tall form of Jacques, the gardener, rose in the midst of the startled crowd.

"Cowards!" he called, "how dare you torment this innocent child who, in her purity is amongst you like an angel amongst fiends; and you, you," he cried, scornfully, turning his flashing eyes upon the cowering Angèle, "go down on your knees before these people; show them your black, false heart; tell them how you deceived me as

well as that innocent child. Shame on your wicked soul; shame, shame upon you all."

With a movement of disgust, Jacques freed himself from the abashed people about him, and stood beside the trembling Margot.

There

"The apple sprig has spoken truly, Margot," he said tenderly. "If thou wilt have me for thy husband, it will not have bloomed in vain. What sayest thou, little one?" With all her soul in her eyes, Margot looked up into Jacques's eager face. was no doubting, no questioning now; all the love she saw there was her own. With a sob of joy, she laid her hands in Jacques's and with them, the sprig of apple-blossoms-the emblem of their tender

love.

While the orchards were still white with blossoms, Jacques and Margot were married. Thus, speedily was verified the sweet promise of Margot's apple-sprig.

Becca M. Samson.