“I pray you remain,” she replied, in a loud voice, adding, in a lower tone, “and you also, Jean Paul. Marianne, bring some of the wine of our country—Bordeaux. Gentlemen, you can not refuse to drink the prosperity of France? And now,” added she, “the excitement I have undergone—this fire, which is so warm—you will excuse me, if I step to the window a moment for fresh air.” So saying, she went to the window, and opened the shutters, letting the curtains fall before her. “Stop!” she said to M. de Fombelle, restraining him from entering the chamber, which he attempted, and handing him the rouleau of _louis-d’ors_—the price of her first book—“take this, and begone quickly; you are in danger if you remain. Adieu!” Closing the shutters and the sash, she again appeared, smiling in the midst of the soldiers. Marianne returned the same moment with a salver covered with glasses, and bottles of wine. “At last we shall have a piano, Sophie,” said she, turning toward her mistress to drink. “Not yet, my good Marianne,” replied Sophie, with a joyful tone, which contradicted her reply. [Illustration] Such was the _début_ of the gifted woman who has written so many charming romances. Late in life she commenced a work on Education; but a cruel malady surprised her in the midst of her labor, and after three months of suffering, which were, however, alleviated by the tenderness of friends, and the consolations of religion, she died on the 25th of August, 1807, aged thirty-four years. * * * * * THE GENTLE STEP. BY HARRIET J. MEEK. Hearts somewhere beat, from which it cannot pass; Earth has no sunshine left, nor time nor place, But a new scene slides o’er the magic glass, And _we_ forget the space. Light, and still lighter seemed that step to fall; I scarce could tell you when it ceased, or how; A breathing spirit walked the earth—’tis all— That does not walk it now. I think sometimes upon the sunny floor I see the shadow of her golden hair; And turn half-dreaming to the open door, To look if she is there. And then I mind. Life’s rough and thorny round Would long ere this have torn the folded wing Whose downy waving glided over sound, And left it slumbering. Death came, when flowers were passing from the earth; We thought to hear the clanking of his chain, But the light step one evening left the hearth, And came not back again. * * * * * BARBARA UTTMAN’S DREAM. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.