JACQUELINE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Death lies on her, like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

SHAKSPEARE.

"DEAR mother, is it not the bell I hear?" "Yes, my child; the bell for morning prayers. It is Sunday to-day."

"I had forgotten it. But now all days are alike to me. Hark! it sounds again - louder — louder. Open the window, for I love the sound. There; the sunshine and the fresh morning air revive me. And the church-bell-oh, mother-it reminds me of the holy Sabbath mornings by the Loire-so calm, so hushed, so beautiful! Now give me my prayer-book, and draw the curtain back, that I may see the green trees and the church spire. I feel better to-day, dear mother."

It was a bright cloudless morning in August. The dew still glistened on the trees; and a slight breeze wafted to the sick chamber of Jacqueline the

song of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, and the solemn chime of the church-bells. She had been raised up in bed, and reclining upon the pillow, was gazing wistfully upon the quiet scene without. Her mother gave her the prayer-book, and then turned away to hide a tear that stole down her cheek.

At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline crossed herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that hung around her neck, and opened the silver clasps of her missal. For a time she seemed wholly absorbed in her devotions. Her lips moved, but no sound was audible. At intervals the solemn voice of the priest was heard at a distance, and then the confused responses of the congregation, dying away in inarticulate murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chant of the the ear. At first it was

Catholic service broke upon low, solemn, and indistinct; then it became more earnest and entreating, as if interceding, and imploring pardon for sin; and then arose louder and louder, full, harmonious, majestic, as it wafted the song of praise to heaven, and suddenly ceased. Then the sweet tones of the organ were heard, trembling, thrilling, and rising higher and higher, and filling the whole air with their rich melodious music. What exquisite accords! - what noble harmonies! what touching pathos! The soul of the sick girl seemed to kindle into more ardent devotion, and to be rapt away to heaven in the full harmonious chorus, as it swelled onward, doubling and redoubling,

and rolling upward in a full burst of rapturous devotion! Then all was hushed again. Once more the low sound of the bell smote the air, and announced the elevation of the host. The invalid seemed entranced in prayer. Her book had fallen beside her, her hands were clasped, her eyes closed, -her soul retired within its secret chambers.

Then a more triumphant peal of bells arose. The tears gushed from her closed and swollen lids; her cheek was flushed: she opened her dark eyes, and fixed them with an expression of deep adoration and penitence upon an image of the Saviour on the cross, which hung at the foot of her bed, and her lips again moved in prayer. Her countenance expressed the deepest resignation. She seemed to ask only that she might die in peace, and go to the bosom of her Redeemer.

The mother was kneeling by the window, with her face concealed in the folds of the curtain. She arose, and going to the bedside of her child, threw her arms around her and burst into tears.

"My dear mother, I shall not live long; I feel it here. This piercing pain-at times it seizes me, and I cannot cannot breathe."

"My child, you will be better soon."

"Yes, mother, I shall be better soon.

All tears,

and pain, and sorrow will be over. The hymn of adoration and entreaty I have just heard, I shall never hear again on earth. Next Sabbath, mother,

kneel again by that window as to-day. I shall not be here, upon this bed of pain and sickness; but when you hear the solemn hymn of beseeching tones that wing the

worship, and the

spirit up to God,

think, mother, that I am there, with my sweet sister who has gone before us,-kneeling at our Saviour's feet, and happy-oh, how happy!"

The afflicted mother made no reply,- her heart was too full to speak.

"You remember, mother, how calmly Amie died. Poor child, she was so young and beautiful! I always pray that I may die as she did. I do not fear death as I did before she was taken from us. But oh this pain this cruel pain-it seems to draw my mind back from heaven. When it leaves me I shall die in peace."

"My poor child! God's holy will be done!"

The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber. The excitement was over, and exhausted nature sought relief in sleep.

The persons between whom this scene passed, were a widow and her sick daughter, from the neighborhood of Tours. They had left the banks of the Loire to consult the more experienced physicians of the metropolis, and had been directed to the Maison de Sante at Auteuil for the benefit of the pure air. But all in vain. The health of the suffering but uncomplaining patient grew worse and worse, and it soon became evident that the closing scene was drawing near.

Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious; and towards evening she expressed a wish to receive the last sacraments of the church. A priest was sent for; and ere long the tinkling of a little bell in the street announced his approach. He bore in his hand a silver vase containing the consecrated wafer, and a small vessel filled with the holy oil of the extreme unction hung from his neck. Before him walked a boy carrying a little bell, whose sound announced the passing of these symbols of the Catholic faith. In the rear, a few of the villagers, bearing lighted wax tapers, formed a short and melancholy procession. They soon entered the sick chamber, and the glimmer of the tapers mingled with the red light of the setting sun, that shot his farewell rays through the open window. The vessel of oil, and the vase containing the consecrated wafer, were placed upon the table in front of a crucifix that hung upon the wall, and all present, excepting the priest, threw themselves upon their knees. The priest then approached the bed of the dying girl, and said, in a slow and solemn tone,

"The King of kings and Lord of lords has passed thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to receive him?" "It is, father."

"Hast thou confessed thy sins?"

"Holy father, no."

"Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be forgiven and thy name recorded in the book of life."