and I have given you pain, yet you would have the secrets of my heart."

"I prefer knowing them," said he; "but, believe me, that it is very contrary to your usual judgment and steady piety, to suffer dreams and vain fervours to draw you from me."

"Alas? alas!" cried she, "they must appear vain fervours, but "

"Yes, Geraldine, they are so; and if you will, for once, yield your judgment to mine, you will be happy."

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"For once!" cried she. "O, Eustace, I have been ever submissive to you."

"You have, Geraldine, you have been submissive, and your submission has been adorned with every grace that could render it acceptable to God, for whose sake you have yielded your will: but I now ask-and for the first time I ask it-the submission of your understanding-this, inasmuch as it is more difficult and more painful, is more heroic; but there was a time when nothing could seem difficult or painful, if done for God and for me."

"If it be really for God and for you, no sacrifice could seem great," said she.

"Well then," said De Grey," make the sacrifice of these solitary musings, of these secret ecstacies, for a while at least, and in the meantime we will both pray that you may see the delusion, if it be

one."

"If it be one," repeated she.

"Ah! Geraldine," cried he, "you cannot yield; and yet, believe me, that God values far more the humility which mistrusts itself, than all the raptures imaginable."

Geraldine replied not, but stood silently in prayer, her eyes raised to Heaven, and De Grey felt his heart beat as he awaited the result. At length, slowly approaching him, she knelt at his feet and

wept. A flush of joy overspread his face as he raised her.

"Where is the poor dove now?" asked he, tenderly.

"On earth! on earth!" sighed Geraldine.

"Yet blessed are the poor in spirit,'" said De Grey, "for their's is the kingdom of Heaven.'"

CHAPTER X.

The tomb to the blushing rose thus said,
"Of the tears upon thee, by the morning shed,
What makest thou, flower of love?"

The rose, in her turn, thus questioned the tomb,
"What makest thou in thy gulf of gloom,

Of all thou devourest from above?"

Said the rose to the tomb, "From those precious tears,
A scent, that of amber and honey appears,

I breathe out 'mid the silence of night."

And the tomb replied to the rose, "Plaintive flower,
Of every soul that I seem to devour,

I make a blest angel of light."

VICTOR HUGO.

"WHO is the disengaged and independent one now?" said Geraldine to her husband, a few weeks after the above conversation, when, at the end of more than an hour's silence, she approached him, and took his hand. "I have spoken and you have not answered, I have sung and you have not listened, I have changed the flowers at the window beside you, and you have seen neither me nor them. And I do not love this last silence, for you have often sighed."

"Have I," said he, and he again sighed.

"Ah, what is it?" asked she, "have I grieved

you?"

"Geraldine," said De Grey, "when I extorted your promise to resist the supernatural attraction given to you in prayer, I well knew that if it came from God, He would reward you tenfold for your

humility and submission, while, on my part, I felt bound to redouble my prayers and other religious acts, that God would be pleased to enlighten my mind and strengthen my heart, should I have been guided by human feeling in this matter: and now," added he, with emotion, "I must farther pray for grace to resign you, my love, for you are not long for this world."

"Did God reveal this to you?" asked Geraldine, her countenance overspread with joy.

"He has given me the conviction that we are soon to part, and your soul is by far the most prepared."

"O, no," cried she: "it is you who are now imaginative; have you not been my guide and support through my Catholic life, and would you now seek to raise the pupil above her teacher? Dear Eustace, I have saddened your mind, and it turns on what would be your loss, and I dare not think would be yet my gain."

"Then why that radiance over your face just now?"

"You took me quite by surprise, and I thought only of God; but indeed I am not fit to approach His adorable sanctity, and I ought to desire neither life nor death, but accept of either from His hands in perfect peace. Tell me why you have this impression that we are soon to part?"

“I have been retracing all the circumstances of your spiritual life," replied De Grey, " and see with gratitude that it has been rapidly progressive. You are now humble enough for me to recall without pain to you, how lofty and independent a mind you had, when first you consented to the yoke of obedience."

"And you were a brave man to undertake the task of controlling that proud spirit," said Geraldine, smiling.

"Oh," cried De Grey also smiling, "there was an excitement and charm in it."

"Which," interrupted she playfully, "you feel almost tempted to regret."

"Ah, Geraldine, you think to cheat me from the records of your life, but it is now my turn to be full of serious thought, and you must listen to me. The very force of mind which had enabled you to conquer all opposition in becoming a Catholic, made it a hard matter to submit to those Catholic practices which resulted from the truths you had received. You had, as the only child of an indulgent and admiring father, been the queen of your little world, and, although you were willing to extend to me the crown-matrimonial, when it came to the yielding the sceptre, there was a struggle of the natural heart. You loved to relinquish your will to me as a boon, but not as my right; and now, sweet Geraldine, you can listen to all this without upbraiding or tears, without even a reply, therefore I may continue my comments on your spiritual history. You did not, at one time, sufficiently feel the necessity of a pure intention in the benevolent actions you performed. The eagerness with which you sought success in every undertaking, and your emotion under any failure, proved that you had the double motive of glorifying both Almighty God and Lady De Grey. The true spirit of the hidden life was unknown to you, and that keen susceptibility to praise or blame which Catholics consider reprehensible, you had cherished as a virtuous refinement. A friend might misunderstand and misjudge you; I might appear independent and forgetful of you in my pursuits, and your wounded feelings must be soothed, and your self-love appeased. Now, has the hidden life become so dear to you, the pure motive of seeking God alone become so precious to you, you have learned so truly to bless him in fail