dreams are frequently more vivid than the reality of life,-that is we are

g as of sea-fog and sun-flame,-and as this in turn slowly cleared,-dispersing itself in serpentine coils of golden-grey vapour,-he found himself standing on the edge of a vast sea, glittering in a light that was neither of earth nor of heaven, but that seemed to be the inward reflection of millions of flashing sword blades. And as he stood gazing across the width of the waters, the sky above him grew black, and a huge ring of fire rose out of the east, instead of the beloved and familiar sun,-fire that spread itself in belching torrents of flame upward and downward, and began to absorb in its devouring heat the very sea. Then came a sound of many thunders, mingled with the roar of rising waters and the turbulence of a great whirlwind,-and out of the whi

elf he felt no hope,-no chance of rescue;-in himself he knew that the appalling work of destruction was being accomplished with a deadly swiftness that left no time for lamentation,-that the nations of the world were as flyin

rone to pain and death! Thou hast lived his life and endured his sorrows, though in the perfect glory of Thy Godhead Thou hast not sinned! Have patience yet, oh Thou great Splendour of all worlds! Have patience yet, Thou outraged and bla

ey hues of twilight, and he became conscious of the approach of a great invisible Presence, whose awful unseen beauty overwhelmed him with its sublimity and majesty, causi

be broken. Nevertheless remember that 'the light shin

nfused and dazzled by the strong visionary impression of the burning heavens and sea,-and he could not for a moment realize where he was. Then, after a while, he recognised the humble furniture of the room h

thought of the doom pronounced upon the earth,-the planet "known to all angels as the Sorrow

r of all beauty, should be destined to hurl from its shining centre death and destruction upon the planet it had from creation vivified and warmed! The Vision had shown the devastating ring of fire rising from that very qu

of the Almighty, it follows that the world must be destroyed. What am I that I should pray against Divine Justice! For truly we have had our chance of rescue and sa

n impulse the Cardinal rose, and going to the window looked anxiously out, and down into the street below. Not a living creature was to be seen. The moonlight spread itself in a vast silver glory over the whole width of the square, and the delicate sculpture of the great r

est cuttings on the gigantic grey facade of Notre Dame could be discerned and outlined as distinctly as though every little portion were seen through a magnifying glass. The Cardinal's tall attenuated figure, standing alone and almost in the centre of the square, cast a long thin black shadow on the glistening grey stones,-and his dream-impression of an empty world came back forcibly upon him,-a world as empty as a hollow shell! Houses there were around him, and streets, and a noble edifice consecrated to the worship of God,-nevertheless there was a sense of absolute desertion in and through all. Was not the Cathedral its

ising his eyes to the tranquil heavens,-"and the joy of existence is de

showed nothing but its own massively sculptured outlines-then-all at once the Cardinal perceived standing within the embrasured darkness, the slight shrinking figure of a child. A boy's desolate little figure,-with uplifted hands clasped appealingly and laid against the shut Cathedr

e you here all alone, and weeping at this

a sad face he had!-worn and weary, yet beautiful!-what eyes, heavy with the dews of sorrow, yet tender even in pain! Startled by the mingled purity and grief of so yo

u weeping h

y, answering in a soft voice of vibrating and

and a sudden trembling seized him, though he could discover in himself no cause for fear. Anxiously he surveyed the s

here within, but it

he Cardinal, recovering from his momentary stupor and bewild

ir uplifted, supplicating and almost protesting attitude against the locked Cathedral-door, and mo

You do not know who I am-nor where I came from, and I, alas! may not tell you! I am alone; all-all alone,-for no one knows me in

ildish form erect with a grace which was not born of pride so much as of endurance, and again the Cardinal trembled, though he knew not why.

you shall sleep in my room for the remainder of the night, and

ith his foundling across the square and into the Hotel Poitiers. Arrived at his own bed-room, he smoothed his

and forget all your troubles. Lie down here

you depriving yourself of comfort in order to g

not always be unjust! Do not trouble yourself concerning me; I shall sleep well on the sofa in the next room-indeed, I sha

boy advanced and caught the Cardi

spoke-"Are you sure that it is well for you to shelter me?-I-a stranger,-poor, and with no one to spe

ightness such as one might imagine would illumine the features of an angel, an

I should shelter you,-it would be ill indeed if I permitted any living creature to suffer for lack of what I could giv

boy, half smiling and still raising his sorr

that clustered over his foundling's forehead-"I am in no wise curious. It is enough for m

ened his clasp of t

at had once before brightened his countenance shone again like a veritable flash of sunlig

the Cardinal-"N

gravely-"I am one of the world's wa

each other full and steadfastly, and once again an inexplicable nervous tre

t! Sleep-and Our Lady's

get a chance of free education and employment in Rouen, while proper enquiries were being made about him. That was the soberly prosaic and commonplace view to take of the matter. The personality of the little fellow was intensely winning,-but after all, that had nothing to do with the facts of the case. He was a waif and stray, as he himself had said; his name, so far as he seemed to know it, was Manuel,-an ordinary name enough in France,-and his age might be about twelve,-not more. Something could be done for him,-something SHOULD be done for him before the Cardinal parted with him. But this idea of "parting" was just what seemed so difficult to contemplate! Puzzled beyond measure at the strange state of mind in which he found himself, Felix Bonpre went over and over again all the events of the day in order,-his arrival in Rouen,-his visit to the Cathedral, and the grand music he had heard or fancied he heard there,-his experience with the sceptical little Patoux children and their mother,-his conversation with the Archbishop, in which he had felt much more excitement than he was willing to admit,-his dream wherein he had been so painfully impressed with a sense of the desertion, emptiness, and end of the world, and finally his discovery of the little lonely and apparently forsaken boy, thrown despairingly as it were against the closed Cath