The _houblieurs_, or dealers in wafers, a sort of cake, were accustomed to ring a hand-bell to give notice of approach in their passage through the streets; and Marguerite could only construe the page’s enigma, that he intended visiting her abode so disguised. Obeying the directions, she resorted without delay to the palace gardens, and with fear and trembling took up the station pointed out. A few minutes after the hour mentioned, chimed by the clock, two ushers passed the bench where the maiden was seated—she arose instantly, and the cardinal duke was close at hand, almost surrounded by a group of gaily dressed gentlemen. Her courage forsook her—but it was too late to retreat—she stood conspicuous in the avenue, and the great man’s train, accustomed perhaps to similar rencontres, falling back a few paces, though within hearing, she confronted the lion in his path. A slight, almost imperceptible shade crossed his features, but he stopped, and with princely serenity listened to the faltering pleading. “And if the wheels of justice of a mighty kingdom are arrested for one week, will it content such a faithful servant of the king?” asked the cardinal. “I hope it will afford time to prove my father’s innocence, Monseigneur,” replied the maiden. “Then Mademoiselle’s wishes shall be the law of France,” rejoined the minister. Bowing with dignity to the maiden, he passed onward with his suite, and she was again alone in the avenue. [_To be continued._ * * * * * THE HAUNTED HEART. BY MISS MARY L. LAWSON. ’Tis true he ever lingers at her side, But mark the wandering glances of his eye: A lover near a fond and plighted bride, With less of love than sorrow in his sigh! And well it is for her, that gentle maid, Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears, She deems not her devotion is repaid With deep repinings o’er life’s early years. For oft another’s image fills his breast, E’en when he breathes to her love’s tender vow; While her soft hand within his own is prest, And timid blushes mantle her young brow, Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past, Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears; In vain from out his soul he strives to cast One shadowy form—the love of early years. Ne’er from his heart the vision fades away; Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone, The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day, Bring to his mind the happiness that’s flown; A tone of song, the warbling of the birds, The simplest thing that memory endears, Can still recall the form, the voice, the words Of her, the best beloved of early years.