courage, friends, your ills I know, your life I hope to
save.'
'Too late!' dear mother cried; 'too late! My home is in the
grave;

Our things are pledged, our med'cine gone, e'en bread we cannot
buy.'
The doctor shudder'd, then grew pale, but sadly still drew nigh.

"No curtains had we on our bed: I marked his pallid face;
Five silver crowns now forth he drew with melancholy grace--

'Poor woman, take these worthless coins, suppress your bitter
grief!
Don't blush; repay them when you can--these drops will give
relief.'

"He left the hut, and went away; soon sleep's refreshing calm
Relieved the patient he had helped--a wonder-working balm;
The world now seemed to smile again, like springtide flowers so
gay,
While mother, brothers, and myself, incessant worked away.

"Thus, like the swallows which return with spring unto our shore,
The doctor brought rejoicing back unto our vine-wreathed door;
And we are happy, Isabel, and money too we've made;
But why dost weep, when I can laugh?" the gentle maiden said.

"Alas! alas! dear Marianne, I weep and mourn to-day,
From your house to our cottage-home the fever made its way;
My father lies with ghastly face, and many a raving cry--
Oh, would that Durand too might come, before the sick man die!"

"Dear Isabel, haste on, haste on--we'll seek his house this hour!
Come, let us run, and hasten on with all our utmost power.
He'll leave the richest palace for the poor man's humble roof--
He's far from rich, except in love, of that we've had full
proof!"

The good God bless the noble heart that careth for the poor;
Then forth the panting children speed to seek the sick man's
cure;
And as beneath our giant elms they pass with rapid tread,
They scarcely dare to look around, or lift their weary head.
The town at last is reached, by the Pont-Long they enter,
Close by the Hue des Jacobins, near Durand's house they venture.
Around the portals of the door there throngs a mournful crowd;
They see the Cross, they hear the priests the Requiem chaunt
aloud.

The girls were troubled in their souls, their minds were rent
with grief;
One above all, young Marianne, was trembling like a leaf:
Another death--oh, cruel thought! then of her father dying,
She quickly ran to Durand's door, and asked a neighbour, crying:

"Where's the good doctor, sir, I pray? I seek him for my
father!"
He