with perfect devotion, she looked upon and pressed to her lips his
miniature, which was fastened to a massive chain hanging on her neck;
never in sight, but hidden from other eyes, as if too sacred for their
gaze. Her husband was of French parentage, but had, when at the early
age of sixteen she married him, been alone in this country. He was
twenty years older than herself, and her parents passing away soon after
her marriage, he had been husband, mother and father. Her son, Louis
Robert, eighteen years of age, was named for him, and both she and her
son had fortunes in their own right. It seemed that Mr. Desmonde had an
illness lasting for months, and knowing it must prove fatal, had
arranged every thing perfectly for his departure. It was his wish that
Louis Robert should, if agreeable to his mind, pursue a course of study,
to prepare him for professional work of some kind.

In a letter written on his death-bed he impressed upon his son the
necessity of dealing honestly with his fellow-men, and exhorted him to
endeavor to be always ready, as opportunities presented themselves for
small charities and kindnesses; these, as his father thought, are often
more praiseworthy than donations to public objects, and the giving of
alms to be seen of men, as many wealthy people do.

In accordance with these last wishes, Louis was placed under the care of
a worthy man, who was principal of a seminary a little distance from the
city where their home was. Clara desired him to come to us about the
twentieth of August and stay two weeks, and also urged me to go to her
home with her and meet him, then returning together.

I hardly wanted to do so, but her sweet urgency persuaded me, and I
consented, reflecting mournfully over those shabby ribbons and that
lemon-colored bow. If there is anything like help in the world that I