It was a spring day in the year 1886 that Roger Everett turned aside from the beaten track of the tourist in New Orleans to visit a school in the old quarter of the city—a school maintained by a few New England philanthropists for colored children exclusively. He lost his bearings in the narrow streets among the quaint old-fashioned houses, and stopped to make inquiries at a small building opening on the street. He rapped on the half-closed wooden shutter with his stick, his eyes meanwhile wandering up and down the silent, sunny street, absently noting the scant, picturesque attire of some brown-faced children at play on the sidewalk and the pathetic figure of an old negro sitting on a doorstep. His failure to find Madeline Capelle had left its traces upon his face. Five years had elapsed since her disappearance, and though he had not ceased to look into every woman’s face he met, he had given up hope of finding her. A serene-eyed woman in a black gown and cap came to the door, and he instantly recognized the dress as the uniform of some religious order or sisterhood. "Come in," she said in a gentle, subdued tone. "I beg your pardon. I merely wished to—" "It will not be an intrusion. Many have already come to-day to see her, for you know many love her. This way, please," she said, and without waiting for him to speak again, she turned and walked through two rather bare, dusky rooms into a small one opening on a green, magnolia-shaded court. He followed her, puzzled, but with a touch of curiosity, wondering how he should explain himself; but the moment he crossed the threshold he understood the mistake that she had made, for in the centre of the room stood a white-draped bier, and through the unfolded linen he could trace the outline of a rigid human form. "See the flowers," his conductress whispered, pointing to the masses of cape jasmines, roses, and smaller flowers. "Sister Christiana loved them, but she loved all things beautiful and good. They were brought this morning by negroes she has been kind to. To teach, to elevate, and to nurse them has been her mission. No service seemed too humble, no duty too hard for her. She did indeed ’belong to Christ.’" Her mild eyes kindled, her hand instinctively sought the cross at her side. "She died calmly and with joy, and knew us until the last moment." He followed her across the room, treading softly, as we always do in the presence of death. With reverent hand she laid aside the shielding linen, and he leaned forward—the past once more a vivid reality and not a memory, not a dream vanishing from him, for the face he looked down upon was the face of Madeline Capelle. *AN OLD-TIME LOVE STORY.*