"The old Marquis was buried, and the little Emilie adopted into the family of the good Jean Maurice. Her education was conducted in a manner far superior to that of his own children, and the choicest garments of those which fell to him were selected to be made over for her. Perhaps unwisely, her history was explained to her, so that she lived all her life with the sense that she belonged in a different sphere--not that she was ungrateful or unamiable--quite the contrary--she was sweet tempered, affectionate and gentle, and loved by Jean Maurice and all his family with a devoted fondness: but the world had charms for her which the world withheld; she felt that she never could become an object of love where she could love in return, and so she repined at her destiny. By accident she made the acquaintance of the family where Dervilly first met her. They had known her father and her grandfather, and she loved them for that. She resisted for a long time the feeling for her lover which she perceived was taking strong hold of her, and when she could resist no longer, she yet delayed to tell him what a home she inhabited. This was her pride--her weakness--and how terribly did she pay the penalty! Day after day (so I was told), she resolved to explain all, but she procrastinated, till her lover, no longer able to restrain his anxiety, and full of excitements and fears and perturbations, followed her at some little distance, just at twilight, and saw or fancied he saw her enter _La Morgue_. It was too much for his nervous temperament. His brain caught fire--he came home raving with delirium--and DIED! Now you have the whole." A LEGEND. TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL FROM THE SPANISH, BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT. "Sin vos, y sin Dios y mi." The motto that with trembling hand I write, And deep is traced upon this heart of mine, In olden time a loyal Christian knight Bore graven on his shield to Palestine. "_Sin vos_," it saith, "if I am without thee," Beloved! whose thought surrounds me every where-- "_Sin Dios_," I am without God, "_y mi_," And in myself I have no longer share. Where pealed the clash of war, the mighty din, Where trump and cymbal crashed along the sky; High o'er the "Il Allah!" of the Moslemin, "God and my lady!" rang his battle-cry. His white plume waved where fiercest raged the flight, His arm was strong the Paynim's course to stem: His foot was foremost on the sacred height, To plant the Cross above Jerusalem. False proved the lady, and thenceforth the knight, Casting aside the buckler and the brand, Lived, an austere and lonely anchorite, In a drear mountain-cave in Holy Land. There, bowed before the Crucifix in prayer, He would dash madly down his rosary, And cry "Beloved!" in tones of wild despair, "I have lost God, and self, in losing thee!"