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then the waves closed over her; and Gaspard De Brie rejoiced in his successful falsehood, in his lingering revenge.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

"Out of my last home, dark and cold,

I shall pass to the city whose streets are gold:
From the silence that falls upon sin and pain,
To the deathless joy of the angels' strain.
Well shall be ended, that ill begun,
Out of the shadow into the sun!"

MRS. LYNDSAY sat in the kitchen of the old farm-house at Montiluna-her hands busily employed in some coarse sewing, her thoughts no less busy over the web of life that lay outspread in all its changeful hues in the still chamber of memory.

The years she had spent beneath this roof were painfully dark to her unchastened heart, wearing but one gleam of brightness, in the thought of her Matilda's "brilliant marriage;" and even this was clouded by her unaccountable silence, and the fear that in her splendor

she had grown ashamed of the narrow circumstances of her family. In Mrs. Lyndsay's mind there was a strange mingling of bitterness at this supposed forgetfulness, or rather neglect, and of apology for what she considered was scarcely to be wondered at; and she glanced round her with the thought—"This is, indeed, no place for the Baroness de Brie. Yet she might have had Julia with her for a while: I counted on her aid in getting Julia married. How will that ever be, shut up here as she is? What can I do with her? True, Amy wanted to have her visit New York; but what would a marriage be in their set?"

She sighed heavily, and as the door opened she looked up with such an expression of distress, that Julia came hastily forward, exclaiming,

"Mamma, what has happened?"

"Nothing new, Julia; I was only thinking what you could do."

"Do, mamma?" exclaimed Julia, brightening; "anything, if you will let me. I could get

a class in a week, to teach French and music, that would make us quite comfortable."

"Nonsense," exclaimed her mother, angrily. "How often must I tell you I will hear of nothing of the kind. Why will you persist in wishing to lower us for ever in the eyes of the world?"

"All the world that know anything about us now, mamma, would think none the less of us; and we should be so much better off. Look at my cousins."

"Yes, Marion has married well; but Cornelia and Helen are almost old maids now, with no prospect of anything better."

"But they are happy and independent. Cornelia has as many scholars as she wants, and Helen has acquired fame, as well as money, by her miniatures. I alone am idle and useless."

"You are no one's servant, Julia; your time and talents are your own."

"Mother," she answered, bitterly, "you are sadly mistaken. I am the slave of the world's opinion-every hour, every moment, almost

every thought, confined in the oppressive bondage; and you, my mother, whom I implore for help to gain my freedom, only bind the fetters closer."

"Let me hear no more of this. I am sick of these new notions of woman's rights and emancipation. No good ever came of casting down the landmarks of society. If there are to be no superior classes, or if these do not guard their position and privileges, we shall degenerate into a nation of boors and laborers. A lady is a lady, even in the narrowest circumstances. Once let her work for her living, and she is hopelessly degraded. What gentleman of wealth or fashion would marry a hireling?"

"Marriage is not always happiness, mother." "Perhaps not; but it is position. A married woman has many privileges that a single one has not. Every one must have some trouble; she need not display hers."

"But, mamma! to be bound for life, for instance, to a man one can never love."

"Nonsensical romance! How many married

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