d dread,
Where the winds, like heavy mourners,
Cry about her lonesome bed,
But of white hands softly reaching
As the shadow o'er her fell,
Downward from the golden bastion
Of the eternal citadel.

[From "The Memorial," just published by Putnam.]

A STORY OF CALAIS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ST. LEGER."

Some years ago, I was detained unexpectedly in Calais for an entire
week. It was with difficulty I could occupy the time. For a while my
chief resource was to inspect the different faces which daily presented
themselves at the Hotel de Meurice, where one could see every variety of
features belonging to every country, age, sex, and condition. I grew
tired of this presently, for I had been on the continent a considerable
period, and had seen the human species under as many different phases as
could well be imagined. Therefore, when the third day brought with it
one of those disagreeable storms peculiar to the coast--half drizzle,
half sleet and rain--it found me weary of the amusement of attending on
new arrivals and departures, and of the nameless petty doings by which
time, in a bustling hotel, is attempted to be frittered away. A misty,
dreary, damp, offensive day! An out-and-out tempest, a thorough
right-down drenching rain, would have been in agreeable contrast with
the previous hot, dusty, sunny weather; but this--it seemed absolutely
intolerable! I was, besides, in no particular condition to be pleased. I
was neither setting out upon a tour, nor returning from one, but had
been interrupted in my progress and forced to stand still at this most
uninteresting spot. I came down, and with a bad grace, to order
breakfast.

"Garcon, Cafe--oeufs a la coque--biftek--rotie--vite!"

I was about repeating this in a louder tone, for the waiter seemed
engrossed with something more important than attending to my wants, when
I heard a quiet voice behind me--

"Garcon, Cafe--oeufs a la coque--biftek--rotie--vite!"

I turned angrily upon the speaker, doubtful of the design of this
repetition of my order.

The reader will perceive that my breakfast was a substantial one;
indeed, such a breakfast as an American, who had not so far lost himself
in "European society" as to forget his appetite, would be very likely to
call for. The idea that I was watched, doubtless made me a little
suspicious, or sensitive, or irritable; at any rate, I turned, as I have
said, angrily upon the speaker. He was a