Father and son had rescued each other's lives. One day as Perry had recovered strength, Judge Whaley said: "My son, are you a minister, qualified to perform marriages?" "Yes." "When you are ready and strong, will you marry your mother and me again?" "Very soon," said Perry; "but not too soon. Here is Marion waiting for me, as she has waited, like Rachel for Jacob, these many years. I shall preach no more, dear father, except as a layman. I see by your eyes that the demon is no longer in our home, and the remainder of my life will be spent in returning to you the joy my presence for years dispelled." "O Perry, my patient son," exclaimed the father, "they who entertain angels unawares have nothing to look to with regret--except unkindness." A CONVENT LEGEND. The General Moreau, that pure republican, Who won at Hohenlinden so much glory, And by Bonaparte hated, crossed the sea to be free. And brought to the Delaware his story. World-renowned as he was, unto Washington he strayed. Where Pichegru, his friend, had contended, And to Georgetown he rode, in search of a church, To confess what of good he offended. The Jesuits' nest beckoned up to the height Where pious John Carroll had laid it, And the General knelt at the cell but to tell His offence; yet or ever he said it, A voice in the speech of his Bretagny home, From within, where the monk was to listen, Exclaimed like a soldier: "Ah me! _mon ami_, Take my place and a sinful one christen! "For mine was the band that brought exile to you; Cadoudal, the Chouan, my master, Broke my sword and my heart, and I lost when I crost, Both honor and love to be pastor. A knight of the king and my lady at court, At the call of Vendee the despised, Into Paris I stole with a few, one or two, As assassins, to murder disguised. "On the third of Nivose, in the narrowest street, And never a traitor one to breathe it, We prepared to blow up Bonaparte with a cart, And a barrel of powder beneath it. He came like a flash, dashing by, but behind, Poor folks and his escort in feather, And the child that we put, _sans_ remorse, by the horse, Were torn all to pieces together." "To the guillotine both of my comrades were sent, But the Church, saving me for the tonsure, Hid me off in the wilds, and my dame, to her shame, To be _Pere_ sold me out from a _Monsieur_; And now she is clad in the silk of the court, And I in the wool of confessor,-- Hate me not, ere hence you go, Jean Victor Moreau! And with France be my fame's intercessor!"