“Oh, good God! good God! see here what I am. How old and shrunken before my time! Cursed be these breasts, that no child has ever suckled; cursed be this withered body, that no man has ever embraced. I could have loved, and lived long, and been made beautiful by happiness. Ah, why am I accursed? I die, unloved and neglected by my own people. No children’s tears, no husband to close my eyes; old, worn out, before my time. A woman only in name--not wife, not mother. Despised and hideous before God and men--God and men.” Her voice died away in a moan, her head fell forward on her breast, and she stumbled against the bed. For a long time she lay crouched there, insensible from mere exhaustion, until, just as the clocks were striking midnight, the door opened gently, and Marthe and M. le Curé came in. Jean, awakened by the sounds overhead, had run quickly for Marthe, and coming back together, they had met M. le Curé on his way. They raised her gently, and laid her on the bed, and finding she still breathed, Marthe ran to fetch brandy, and the Curé knelt by the bed in prayer. Presently, the eyes opened quietly, and M. le Curé saw her lips move. He bent over her, and whispered: “You are troubled, Jeanne-Marie; you wish for the absolution?” But her voice came back to her, and she said clearly: “To die unloved, unmourned; a woman, but no wife; no mother.” She closed her eyes again. There were noises singing in her head, louder and louder; but the pain at her heart had ceased. She was conscious only of a great loneliness, as if a curtain had risen, and shut her off from the room; and again the words came, whispered from her lips: “A woman, accursed and wasted; no mother and no wife.” But some one was speaking, speaking so loudly that the sounds in her head seemed to die away. She opened her eyes, and saw M. le Curé, where he knelt, with his eyes shining on her lace, and heard his voice saying: “And God said, ‘Blessed be the virgins above all women; give unto them the holy places; let them be exalted and praised by My church, before all men, and before Me. Worthy are they to sit at My feet--worthy are they above all women.’” A smile of infinite happiness and of supreme relief lit up Jeanne-Marie’s face. “Above all women,” she whispered: “above all women.” And Jeanne-Marie bowed her head, and died. Parson Herrick’s Muse By C. W. Dalmon THE parson dubs us, in our cups, “A tipsy, good-for-nothing crew!” It matters not--it may be false; It matters not--it may be true. But here’s to parson Herrick’s Muse! Drink to it, dear old comrades, please! And, prithee, for my tombstone choose A verse from his “Hesperides.”