all. We want more schools, and better schools, which is not in reality pure soda, but soda united with a gas shall be accessible to all. Even in Scotland, that country called carbonic acid, and with water; this latter subof parochial schools, population is rapidly out-growing stance, which forms nearly one half of the "soda," as educational agencies. And this is still more strikingly bought in the shops, may be readily separated by drying the case, in all the centres of population in the manu- with a gentle heat; whilst the existence of the carbonic facturing districts of England. Now, it is inevitable, that acid may be rendered evident, by the addition of any a condition of ignorance, in such a country as this, entails stronger acid, as vinegar, when the former escapes in the a condition of poverty. Competition is the rule of our form of gas, with brisk effervescence, whilst the pure soda social life, and, so long as it is so, the ignorant man, or remains united with the acid of the vinegar. the ignorant classes of men, will be left far behind in the race. Ignorance is weakness, in the same degree that knowledge is power. To elevate the mass of the people, therefore, knowledge must be given them; and, as a means of acquiring knowledge, education. Knowledge gives to the indigent strength, contrivance, energy, character. It enables them to turn their industry to account, to struggle with and overcome obstacles, rising, at last, clearly above them. We would, therefore, have the people, the whole people, efficiently educated; and we think we see indications rising throughout the country of this work being, ere long, taken vigorously in hand, both by the public and by the legislature. The correct name therefore of the soda of the shops is carbonate of soda; but, unfortunately this name is given popularly and erroneously to another different substance, which is sold by the druggist. In order to avoid the confusion which would otherwise ensue, we shall in the remainder of this paper distinguish the washing soda of the oilman, by placing the name between inverted commas, and calling it simply "soda; " and the pure alkali separated from the carbonic acid will be designated caustic soda. saries and conveniences of life, to a degree, of which few persons are aware. The source of "soda" as now manufactured is common salt, this is made to pass through a series of complicated chemical operations, during which it is heated with oil of vitriol, and roasted or calcined with coal and limestone: common salt consists of two elements, chlorine and sodium; during these changes the chlorine is removed, and the sodium entering into new combination forms "soda." Within a very few years, the manufacture of "soda" has been wholly changed in its character; formerly it was obtained exclusively from the ash of burnt sea-weeds, Indeed, with all our social short-comings, the feeling which was termed kelp; the production of this substance, of sympathy for the struggling and the distressed was on the Coasts of Scotland alone, amounted to upwards of probably never more active than it is now. There is 25,000 tons annually-and its value was so great, that much earnest effort abroad, and men are every day be- the rental of the small island of North Uist amounted to coming more disposed to deal, in a practical and business- £7,000. Of this immense manufacture scarcely a vestige like way, with the causes of social wrong. There is much now remains; the many thousand persons, formerly eninquiry into the details of suffering, but with a purpose. gaged in collecting and burning sea-weeds into kelp, have Were it only for the sake of a variety in excitement, that had to seek other means of subsistence; the evil however such information was sought after, we should deplore the has not been unmixed, a much larger number of persons inquiries to which we refer, as fraught with immense are now engaged directly, or indirectly, in the manufacmischief. But we hope better things; and we believe ture; and the low price at which "soda" is obtained, there is a rapidly growing desire to lighten the load of has given an immense impetus to almost every branch of suffering endured by the toiling classes. The acknowledg-chemical manufacture, and cheapened many of the necesment of great social evils is generally admitted by all classes, irrespective of the political parties to which they may belong. There is now a decided pause in public political opinion, while social questions are exciting increased interest. All other questions must give place until this great social problem has been solved-How can the indigent classes be admitted to the benefits of civilization -how are the labouring poor to be elevated? The "condition of England question" has indeed become the question of questions; and that it must be seriously and promptly attended to is a conviction that is growing, strengthening, and deepening, in all directions. Men of all parties are beginning to see that the dry, mechanical, routine party principles of the last half century are unable to cope with the difficulties of our present state; and that great social evils are not to be eradicated and cured by mere political remedies. In the meantime, all activities may be employed by individuals, in their several social spheres, to extend and multiply the relations between the poor and the rich; to remove all obstacles out of the way which keep them separate and alien; to investigate and probe honestly and earnestly the causes of indigence and social suffering, and to ameliorate them in all possible ways. The strong must help the weak, the rich the poor, the educated the ignorant. All activities need be at work, zealously and indefatigably. Above all, cordial social sympathy must bind together all classes; for the cure, come when it will, must come from the heart. CHEMISTRY FOR THE KITCHEN. SODA, SOAP, AND WASHING PREPARATIONS. THE well-known substance soda, (which, together with the valuable preparations it yields, will form the subject of our present article on the "Chemistry for the Kitchen,") is one of those substances, the popular name of which is unfortunately incorrect; the so-called soda of the oilman Caustic soda is the active ingredient in all the different varieties of hard soap, whilst the alkali potash enters into the formation of soft soap. The essential stages in the manufacture of hard soap are: firstly, the removal of the carbonic acid from the "soda," in order to obtain the pure alkali in a caustic state; this is accomplished by the use of fresh-burnt slaked lime, which, having a greater affinity for the carbonic acid, attracts it from the soda, leaving the latter in a caustic state, forming when dissolved in water, the ley of the soap boiler. The fatty substances employed, vary with the kind of soap required; for the best white kinds, tallow with small proportions of lard or olive oil is used. The mottled soap is made chiefly from kitchen stuff, and the yellow from a mixture of palm oil and rosin. Whatever may be the kind of fat employed, it is boiled with a quantity of the soda ley, until the whole forms a uniform viscid or sticky liquid, which consists of the water of the ley, a portion of the fat converted into soap by union with the caustic soda, and a large quantity of unchanged fat; to remove the water a quantity of common salt is added, which possesses the remarkable property of rendering that liquid unable to dissolve the soap, which consequently separates, floating on the surface along with the unchanged fat: when the spent ley is pumped away, fresh ley added, and the operations repeated until the whole of the fat is converted into soap, which is quite free from any oily character; it is then poured into frames, a portion of water is stirred in to cause a uniform softness and finer grain, the whole is allowed to cool, and then cut into bars for sale. Soap, as thus manufactured, contains even in the best specimens as much as one quarter of its weight of water, while in the inferior kinds the amount is increased to nearly half the weight. The usefulness of soap, as a cleansing preparation, depends on its power of rendering greasy or oily matters soluble in water, whilst it is totally free from any corroding or destructive action upon either vegetable or animal productions. Several preparations have lately been highly recommended as substitutes for soap in wasbing, and pretended new discoveries have been praised, as means by which the cleaning of linen, &c., could be accomplished without the labour of rubbing-six weeks' washing being pleasantly disposed of before breakfast. One plan recommends the formation of a ley of caustic soda, by slaking one quarter of a pound of quick lime with boiling water, and then boiling it for twenty minutes, with half a pound of soda, and half a pound of soap, previously dissolved in one gallon of water; this, after having been strained, is to be mixed with ten gallons of water, in which the clothes are to be boiled for half an hour, having been previously soaped and soaked for some hours. In these methods, the active cleansing ingredient is the caustic soda, the carbonic acid having been removed from the "soda," by the superior affinity of the quick lime, which, by union with the acid, becomes carbonate of lime or chalk, and remains as an insoluble powder when the liquid is strained or decanted. That the caustic alkalies are capable of cleansing in the manner described there can be no doubt, but that they can do so without considerable injury to the fabric is in the highest degree improbable the matter stands thus; which will cause the greatest injury to the clothes, the constantly repeated action of a dilute solution of caustic soda exerted equally over the whole garment, or the rubbing with soap applied where it may be required? Instead of giving our own opinion on the question, we will quote two authorities; speaking of soap, Mr. Parnell, in his Applied Chemistry, states, "A weak solution of caustic alkali would act more powerfully as a detergent, but it would tend at the same time to corrode the organic matters with which it was placed in contact." Dr. Andrew Ure states, "Alkalies would seem to be proper, as they are the most powerful solvents of grease, but they act too strongly on silk or wool, and change too powerfully the colour of dyed stuffs, to be safely applicable in removing stains."-Dictionary of Arts. Our own opinion is decidedly against the use of caustic alkalies, believing that their repeated use even when in a very dilute state will be found extremely injurious to the strength of all kinds of textile fabrics. The caustic alkalies may, however, be most profitably employed in removing grease from floors, cleansing foul oil lamps, removing paint from wood work, &c.; for this purpose a solution may be most conveniently made in the following manner:-dissolve half a pound of "soda" in half a gallon of water boiling in an iron vessel; to it, add two ounces of fresh-burnt quick lime, previously slaked by covering it with boiling water, so as to form a kind of cream; this is to be added in small proportions, the liquid being allowed to boil a minute or so after each addition; when the whole is added, the liquid should be allowed to boil five minutes, the vessel should be removed from the fire and allowed to stand closely covered up for some hours, when the whole of the liquid may be poured off. The advantage of this method is, that by adding the lime in small quantities, it becomes so heavy after having removed the carbonic acid from the "soda," that it settles perfectly at the bottom, and obviates the disagreeable necessity of straining a very corrosive liquid. This solution of caustic soda may be kept any time in stoppered vessels, (if exposed to the air it absorbes carbonic acid,) and may be diluted to any required extent; it can scarcely be employed in an undiluted state, as it is sufficiently powerful to dissolve rapidly the skin of the hand. W. BERNHARD. THE POCKET BOOK. A YOUNG man, dressed as a workman, was walking hurriedly up and down a badly furnished garret ; he carefully avoided looking towards a table covered with papers; twice, however, he hastily approached it, and put out his hand to take a black morocco pocket-book, which lay on it, but each time turned away suddenly. At length he did take the pocket-book, and dashed it into the fire, and walked on more rapidly, and in greater agitation than before. A thousand painful reflections crowded on his mind; hitherto Augustus had struggled with his fellow-men and with poverty, now he was oppressed by a heavier weight-he fought against his conscience. After a moment or two, he stopped before the fire, and watched the progress of the flames on the pocket-book, which he well knew contained 20,000 francs in bank-notes, and his countenance expressed alternately anger and hesitation. "No," said he, "no, I feel no remorse; why should I? My father's brother, my uncle-he wallows in riches-and did he not cause my father to be disinherited? Has he not condemned us both to wretchedness? And my mother, did not she die in misery? No, no, undone! What are 20,000 francs to him? It is but the third part of the inheritance of which he robbed my father! my father!" Augustus stopped; the colour left his cheeks, and was succeeded by a death-like paleness; he trembled, and his eyes were riveted on the burning pocket-book. His father's name had recalled to his mind his long life of strict honesty, and firm constancy under misfortunes. He snatched the half-consumed pocket-book from the flames, trampled on it, then threw himself on the chair, and covering his face with his hands wept bitterly. He could not have told the cause of those tears, so many bitter thoughts filled his mind, and oppressed his heart. At length, breaking the silence, he exclaimed resolutely, "Misery, yes, misery to the end," and getting up, he collected the papers scattered over the table, locked them with the remains of the pocket-book into a little cabinet, put out the fire, arranged everything in its place, and went out. That evening he wandered through Paris, without object or aim, if for a moment he remembered that Theresa was expecting him, the thought was so painful that he hurried on, as if to escape from all recollection of her, who hitherto, in all his wretchedness and poverty, had been his only comfort, his only joy. Without at first knowing where he was, he stopped at a late hour, opposite his uncle's house, for he, a poor working-jeweller, had an uncle who lived in a handsome house, who was a rich banker, who drove his carriage, gave splendid entertainments, and lavished his wealth to assemble around him all the luxuries of life; yet his nephew, who bore his name, had often felt hunger, and had known all the sufferings of extreme poverty. Only twice had he been admitted into the presence of his uncle, and then he had waited for three hours for an interview of five minutes. The first of these interviews had been occupied in carelessly looking over the papers Augustus had brought to prove his relationship; he was told to call again, and for his mother's sake, whose infirmities required comforts he could not give her, he did call again to expose himself to the insolence of the rich man. "I ask," said he to M. Grand Champ, "but a small sum of money, I promise to repay it in the course of a few years; lend me the means of getting a workshop, and having an apprentice, and a workman, and I will make my own fortune." But the banker required all his "That's very true," answered Dumont. "Then Augustus, my son-in-law, what sum will your friend lend you?" "As much as I shall require." "And what conditions has he imposed as to interest and repayment ?" "My work will soon enable me to pay it off." money to speculate in the morning at the Exchange, "If that is the way," said Margaret, "I will not ob and gamble in the evening at cards; however he ject to their marriage. We did just the same thing our promised to do something for his nephew, and, per-selves; and at the end of four years we had cleared off' haps, intended to fulfil his promise; Augustus called everything." again and again, but never could obtain another interview with M. Grand Champ. Years passed on, his mother died, and died in misery, and Augustus was alone in the world. Such were the remembrances which filled his mind, as he stood leaning against a pillar close to the banker's residence; at each moment an elegant carriage drew up, and deposited its gaily-dressed occupants to join "Just such as you would have made yourself." the brilliant crowd within; sounds of music reached his "How fortunate you have been, my dear boy, but you ear, and everything announced that mirth and gaiety well deserve it; yes, I say it from the depth of my heart, reigned within. "I too," thought the young man, "will I believe you to be an honest man, who cannot be led be happy; I will have no more of this foolish compunc-away from the path of honour: I continually bring you tion ;" and his heart beat loud and quick. He returned up as an example to my sons; but don't hang down your home, opened the little cabinet that contained his trea- head because I say so, for you have ever been a good sure, and in that feverish excitement produced by the son, a faithful friend, a steady, prudent young man; I consciousness of having transgressed the bounds of rec-will say no more, as you do not like it,—your hand, titude, he calculated what it would cost him to set up a Theresa,-and now as to the wedding." jeweller's shop of his own. Fate has decreed it," said he, "I have not stolen, I have found this pocket-book, M. Grand Champ unwillingly and unknowingly lends me 20,000 francs; I will repay him. What a happy day that will be when I can say to him, here is what you lent me, for this is only a loan. If this money belonged to any one else, I should return it at once, but it is my uncle's, who caused his brother to be disinherited; he may well lend to his nephew; his nephew accepts the loan." A burning blush suffused his face while he thus spoke; and after counting and recounting his treasure, he went to bed; but that night sleep did not close his eyelids, or calm his agitated heart. REMORSE. Theresa had allowed her father to place her hand in that of Augustus, who coldly took it; she withdrew it, and ran out of the room to hide the emotion she could not suppress, for his manner was so constrained, so cold, that she feared that now, in his prosperity, he married from feelings of honour her whom he had loved in his poverty: little did she suspect the real cause of his coldness, and the pain which every word of her father had inflicted on his heart. "Those young girls," said Dumont, laughing, "cannot think of marriage without crying, and yet she loves you with all her heart; and you too, Augustus, you seem quite out of spirits!" "That does not surprise me," said Margaret, "I am glad that he reflects upon what he is going to do; marThe next day, Augustus rose before the sun, dressed riage is at all times a serious thing, and we know how himself carefully, for thanks to his industry and economy, long, and how well he has loved our child. But I think he was able, on holidays, to appear in a dress, elegant that before we talk of the wedding, we ought to see our from its simplicity, which set off to advantage his good intended son-in-law suitably settled. Go to bed children, figure, and pleasing intelligent countenance. But to- and tell your sister to come back." day, his face was pale, and wore a restless, anxious ex- When Theresa did come back, they were all so enpression. As soon as he was dressed, he set off in haste gaged in speaking on business, that they did not observe for the Palais Royal, entered the shops of several money-how she avoided meeting Augustus's eyes, and how he changers, where he changed his notes for gold; and, also avoided hers. No one, seeing him so depressed and having done so, breathed more freely. In the evening, silent, would have imagined that he was about to be marhe paid his usual visit at M. Dumont's, where his ab-ried to the young girl he loved so well, whose mind he sence for several successive evenings had excited great had developed, and whom he had watched over from her anxiety in Theresa's mind for him; she had long been his friend, his instructor, and was now a thousand times more than all that. As soon as he came in, all the family exclaimed at the change in his appearance, for his fine moustaches and whiskers had disappeared. He made no reply to their remarks, and appeared anxious and depressed. After some hesitation, he said to M. Dumont, "I come to ask you to become my father by bestowing on me the hand of Theresa; you know how we love each other." Theresa blushed, and bent over her work; her mother and little brothers laughed, but her father answered, gravely : infancy. It was late when he went away, and the following days were entirely occupied in business. Augustus was satisfied with none but a well-known and long-established shop; no rent seemed to frighten him, and Dumont was convinced that his uncle had at length repented of his injustice and unkindness, and when he communicated this idea to his wife, she quite agreed with him, and said, "I can now understand the reason of his low spirits which were beginning to alarm me,-it pains him to be under an obligation to a man who caused his father to be disinherited, and allowed his mother to die in want-I admire his sensitiveness." "So do I," answered Dumont, "but I should like to know what effected such a change." However he did not venture to ask. Theresa, thanks to her mother's care had an explanation with Augustus, "Your marriage now would be most imprudent; how could you support a wife? you only a workman!" "To-morrow I can have a shop of my own." "To-morrow! have you gained a prize in the lot- which had quite reassured her mind, as it convinced her tery?" Almost the same thing." " that he loved her still; and she attributed the change in his manners to the press of business which constantly occupied him; and, happy and satisfied, she employed her. Oh, I hope not," interrupted Margaret, "I consider a lottery as objectionable as any other kind of gam-self in the many little preparations which preceded the bling." great day. The eventful day drew near, Dumont was quite satisfied with all the arrangements Augustus had made, and he admired and wondered at the liberality of his unknown friend. On Monday, all the family, in holiday attire, went to dine with him, for now he had a house to receive them. Theresa was in high spirits, why should one try to conceal the happiness she felt? from infancy she had loved Augustus, and he had loved her, and she was charmed with the prospect of being mistress of his nice new house; the cheerfulness of the whole family communicated itself to him, and, for the time, he recovered his usual lively expression, and really enjoyed having Margaret to arrange his little establishment, and hearing Dumont admire his workshop with the ardour of a true artist; now again he returned Theresa's smile with one full of affection, and, for a moment, that inward voice which had incessantly reproached him for the last month, was silent. After dinner Dumont, raising his glass, said-" Here's to your prosperity, my son, to the health of M. Grand Champ, who now behaves like a good uncle; I think you ought to invite him to the wedding." At these words, the colour forsook Augustus's face, his pale lips trembled, and he frowned angrily, "M. Dumont," said he, "let us not recall the past." "He is quite right," exclaimed Margaret, "there are some things which we may forgive, but cannot forget." "I always thought until now," replied Dumont, "that to forgive and to forget were all the same thing, but so many new things are now put in place of the old, that I hardly understand half of what I hear; however, I will say no more, so don't be vexed Augustus." The wedding took place the following day; the bride simply, but elegantly dressed, looked even prettier than usual, she wept when the nuptial benediction was pronounced, but was cheerful and gay the rest of the day. "How strange it is," remarked one of the guests, "the bridegroom looks as if he was a victim; how pale and depressed he is! Yet how attentive he is to every one." And so he was, he was everywhere, forgot or neglected no one, yet every one felt uncomfortable when they met his eye: though he looked so grave and anxious,―he danced all the night, and, at length, excited by the music and the gaiety around him, he became more animated, and almost recovered his wonted vivacity, and when the party broke up at day-break, all were loud in his praises, and pronounced him an excellent master of the ceremonies. CONSCIENCE. Theresa had been married two months, and for six weeks she had known a secret sorrow, secret even from her mother, her pale and anxious face showed how bitter was that sorrow; her mother visited her constantly, yet could see no cause for unhappiness. Augustus was unremitting in his exertions to execute the orders which poured in on him unceasingly-nothing could be more prosperous than his business. "There is one thing which I beg of you to avoid," said Dumont one day to him, "and that is rash speculation; whenever you are doubtful of the produce of an undertaking, talk it over with your wife; mine has always given me good advice, and Theresa inherits her mother's good sense and judgment." "I know that," answered his son-in-law." "You cannot know it as well as I do," replied Dumont, "a woman possesses more tact and quickness than we do, and sees many points in a question which would never occur to us; besides, when her husband consults her, and treats her with confidence, she takes more interest in his occupations, and everything goes on much better." Augustus made no answer, or rather he turned off the conversation. Plenty reigned in this little establishment, and everything bore the appearance of happiness, and yet sorrow was there, that suffering of the mind which no language can express. Theresa loved her husband with all the warmth of a young devoted heart, but she believed that he no longer loved her. Augustus, so ill at ease with himself, could not show that confidence which is the greatest happiness of mutual love, he avoided being alone with his wife; at times he was passionate in his expressions of affection, but soon relapsed into his habitual reserve. Occasionally, Theresa would venture to say to him, "What is the matter, dear Augustus, I am sure something has made you sorry?" then he would at once leave her, saying, crossly, "Nothing is the matter with me;" or, he would answer, bitterly, "Do you not see that thirst for gold consumes me? I must have gold! heaps of gold!" He could not bear her to go to any place of amusement, and often spoke against wasting money on dress, and she, ever anxious to please him, dressed even more plainly than before her marriage. "I am afraid," said Margaret, that Augustus will become a regular miser, I must speak to him on the subject. She did so, and he listened to her patiently, and then said: "I can never forget that I live by borrowed moneyI have nothing of my own-I can never be happy until I have paid it back." This answer quite satisfied Margaret, and when she repeated it to her husband, he rubbed his hands in delight, exclaiming, "The honest fellow! how I admire his delicacy of feeling, his uncle might well spare what he has lent him, but he dislikes owing anything to the man who robbed his father of everything." And from that day he showed greater esteem than ever for his son-in-law, but far from Augustus being pleased by his marks of esteem and approbation, they seemed to embarrass and irritate him. If Dumont made any allusion to certain persons whose principles would never allow them to forget their debts, he would turn away in vexation, ask an indifferent question, or take up a newspaper, and throw it down again; he would not allow a newspaper in his house, and angrily commanded silence to any of his workmen who amused themselves by talking of the crimes or accidents which daily took place in Paris, or of those acts of honesty which are so frequent among the labouring classes. One day Theresa related to her mother the noble conduct of one of their workmen; this poor man, the father of three children, having found a heavy purse in the street, had taken it at once to the police office, without even having opened it to see what it contained: when he saw the police officer reckon the sum of two thousand francs in gold, he exclaimed, "How happy he, whom all that belongs to, will be to get it again!" "The fool," said Augustus, in so strange a voice, that they both started. "I say he is a fool!" repeated he, in a still more angry tone; during the whole story he could hardly sit quietly, and now he seemed as if bereft of his senses, he walked up and down in the greatest agitation, kicked the furniture out of his way, and then leaving the room, he slammed the door so violently that the whole house shook. "What can be the matter?" asked Margaret of her daughter, who seemed much less surprised. "William is a very stupid workman, and I suppose he has vexed Augustus," answered Theresa. "But then he is such an honest man." "Yes, he is, Mamma; but he does more harm than good, Augustus merely keeps him from pity, for he knvws that if he did not, William and his family must starve, as no one else would employ him; you don't know how kind he is!" "Your husband may be kind, but I greatly fear that he has a very violent temper, and we always thought him so gentle.' "He has rather a warm temper," said Theresa, turning away her head; "but his anger is soon over." Her mother said no more, but went home sorrowfully, more convinced than ever that happiness was not the portion of her beloved child, That evening, Augustus was more affectionate and kind than usual, instead of shutting himself up in his study, where he spent all his evenings under pretence of attending his business, he sat down beside her; she, though surprised and delighted at his doing so, yet felt embarrassed, not knowing on what subject be would like her to speak, at length she said something about her mother. "She must have thought me very strange," interrupted Augustus, "and what did you think of me, Theresa ?” "I thought William had done some fresh mischief." Augustus breathed freely, like one suddenly freed from a neavy burden. "And I told her how kind you were to that poor family, in giving him employment, you are so very kind, my own dear Augustus !" He took her hand and pressed it to his heart, and to his lips; and she felt that it was wet with his tears. "You weep!" she exclaimed, rising to throw her arms round his neck, but Augustus, burying his face in his hands, remained silent and motionless. Poor Theresa did not yet know how to manage the strange and irritable temper of her husband, she stood silently looking at him, not venturing to speak even a word of affection. "Theresa!" said he, suddenly turning towards her his pale and haggard face, "it is a long time since I promised to take you to Montmartre, will you come there tomorrow?" "Yes, dear, and I will get crowns and flowers." He then got up and kissed her, and went into his study. Theresa understood the object of this walk which he had constantly refused to take before; at Montmartre reposed the remains of his father and mother. The next day Augustus said to her, "I cannot go there with you. I have thought upon it; and I ought not to go there." "I will go alone," said Theresa, quietly, but, when her husband had left her, she said "What can he mean by this? he ought not to visit the graves of his father and mother? he who was so good a son; we are now married six months, and he has never gone there, what can be the matter?" Augustus, coming back, said to her, "You must take neither crowns nor flowers there; tell them I can give them nothing, for I possess nothing in the wide world !" And then he began to walk to and fro as he often did for hours together, without speaking a word; after some time, he stopped near his wife, and appeared anxious to say something to her, for, clasping her in his arms, and pressing her to his heart, he exclaimed, "I am very miserable!" At that moment, Margaret opened the door, and Augustus disappeared. "What is the matter again?" asked the anxious mother. 66 "Mamma," answered Theresa, quickly wiping her eyes, Augustus has begged of me to go to Montmartre, will you come there with me?" "I will; but why does he not go there with you himself?" "He is very busy," replied her daughter, without raising her head. Margaret sighed, and asked if she had flowers. But this affectionate mother would not leave her child, she saw her unhappiness, and wanted Theresa to explain that which in truth she did not herself understand-the real cause of her sorrow. "To-morrow, perhaps, I may be able to tell you something, for I am sure Augustus will talk to me about it to-night." "I will come again to-morrow," said Margaret, and she went away with a heavy heart. THE CONFESSION. For some moments, Augustus had been alone with his wife, he had locked the door and closed the windows, and drawn the curtains, he sat down beside her, got up, and sat down again, took her hand in his and still was silent; "Theresa," said he at length, with effort, "which would you heed most, poverty or shame ?" "Shame, certainly," answered she, without hesitation, though surprised at so unexpected a question. "But what do you mean by shame," asked Augustus more firmly, "public or secret shame ?" "Shame is shame whether known or secret," said Theresa. "You are right, and I know it; well, then, poverty, honourable and honoured poverty! Forgive me, Theresa, I have raised expectations which I cannot realize. When I was poor you loved me, you would have become my wife; let us become poor again. Tell me, will you?" "I do not know what you mean," answered Theresa. "I will tell you what I mean. Nothing we have belongs to me, I must return this polluted gold, it was never intended for me-do you understand me now? No, don't try to comprehend me, but know that, to-morrow, all we possess must pass into other hands! We must sell everything, and borrow to make up the sum I owe." "This polluted gold," repeated Theresa, mechanically, her eyes fixed doubtingly on her husband. "If you fear poverty, tell me so," exclaimed he. "I fear nothing, while I am with you; yes, become poor, become all that you once were," and she threw herself weeping into his arms. "I will, Theresa, and promise you I will; then I shall no longer have this dreadful weight on my heart!" "It is then that which makes you so unhappy?" "Yes." "Then why did you contract that debt?" At these words, he withdrew his arms from her, and said bitterly, "Ah! do not probe my wound, do not oblige me to tell all, to blush before my wife; have I not said enough? Try to fathom it all, as you value your peace of mind. Yet, it is better that you should know it; but promise, first, that you will not hate or despise your guilty husband." Her only answer was to throw her arms round his neck. "Yes, you shall know all, but give me one moment to collect my thoughts." He got up and went into his study; and Theresa heard him writing quickly. After a few moments he returned, and gave her a letter, telling her to read it, and saying, "we must finish it all to day. The sum I owe is 20,000 francs; thanks to my greatness of conscience, I have still 10,000 in hand; I must borrow the remainder, and, if necessary, will sell everything," and he went out. Theresa, left alone, held the letter in her hand for some time before she ventured even to She began to dress; she would have given all the world that her mother had not come in just then, as Augustus was going to tell her the cause of his unhappi-look at the address; she started when she read the ness; and she hoped he would do so again. "The master wants you in the workshop, Ma'am, said one of the workmen, opening the door; come at once, if you please." She followed him immediately; her husband was awaiting her in the passage. "I want to speak to you," said he, "let me know as soon as ever your mother goes." words "M. Grand Champ, Banker." She opened the letter, and read as follows,-"You treated me cruelly at the most anxious moment of my life, and eight months ago I believed that fate offered me compensation or vengeance by placing in my hands a pocket-book belonging to you, which contained 20,000 francs in banknotes; you lost it on the 19th of April, at the entrance of the Opera, probably in getting out of your carriage; |