d; in the graceful outline of features sweet and
attractive we read the marks of much mortification. A halo of religion
and sanctity envelopes him with that reverential awe we give to true
virtue.

He has entered the room. Alvira starts.

She has seen that face before; that noble brow; that lofty mien;
that irresistible sweetness of look. He is some acquaintance, perhaps
met casually in the rambles of youthful folly. Reverence for the
Blessed Sacrament banished further curiosity, and Alvira, with
closed eyes and hands folded on her crucifix, joined in the solemn
prayers recited on such occasions.

When all the prescribed ceremonies were completed, the good priest
drew near the couch of the suffering invalid, and, allowing a moment
for a relaxation of thought and for conversation, mildly enquired if
she suffered much pain.

"So they tell me you have come from Paris, my child," we fancy we hear
the good father commencing a conversation that leads to a strange
discovery.

"Yes, father, 'tis my native city."

"And what was your family name?"

"Cassier."

"Cassier!" replied the priest, with a thrill of surprise. "Did he
live in Rue de Seine?"

"Yes, father."

"You had a sister?"

"Yes; but she is now in heaven. She was killed on Mount Vesuvius."
Alvira wept.

A startling suspicion had crept over the good priest. Was it possible
that the invalid sinking into eternity in a sunset of sanctity and of
heroic penance, formerly the chivalrous captain of Vesuvian fame,
was no other than his own sister?

"And what became of your brother?" asked the Jesuit after a pause,
and looking anxiously into Alvira's emaciated countenance.

"Ah! father," she replied, "I would give worlds to know. About thirty
years ago, when our home was comfortable, he suddenly disappeared
from us; no one could tell what became of him; we knew he was called
by God to a holier life, and it was our impression at the time he
fled to join some strict religious order. Poor dear Aloysia and
myself used to pain him by turning his pious intentions to ridicule.
His disappearance broke my poor mother's heart, for she died very
soon afterwards."

A long, deep silence ensued. Pere Augustin--for that was his name
in religion--held his hands clasped up at his lips whilst Alvira was
speaking. He remained motionless; his eyes were fixed on a spot on
the floor. It was evident a struggle was going on within him. There
could be no longer any do