heaven, hell, and even God himself.

M. Pontalba turned suddenly, and, drawing his chair close beside us,
with an apology for the seeming intrusion, addressed the incipient
skeptic:

"Behind the iron bars of that dreariest of studies, a prison, a little
weed once received the concentrated thought of a savant. The covering of
its stem, the first tender leaves, the development of the bud, the
expansion of the flower--each bewildering in its consummate
propriety--unfolded, in their turn, a system of laws in simplicity
transcendent. By the aid of a microscope, a 'gillyflower' was seen
protecting a chrysalis. Warm leaves cherished it, dainty juices aided
its digestion, wholesome offshoots nourished it to maturity. Eking out a
scant existence between two granite flags, this insignificant waif
reared a caterpillar. What man are you, who can say there is no God?"

There was a pathos in his voice, and a tone of simple fervor, which gave
that quiet old man the air of a priest.

It was more than a year afterward I took these rooms; but my
establishment was of short duration ere I learned the history of an
eventful morning which followed that incident:--of how the placid face
of the master peered among his people, beaming with a great joy; how a
sumptuous feast was fitted up in the private office for all in the
employ; of the two hundred francs, and a suit of clothes, presented to
each; and how every one, from the little messenger to the gray cashier,
with the rarest wine in the cellar, drank prosperity to the new-born son
and heir, and much happiness to the mother,--"God bless her!"