Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 450 | Page 9

lips. Hearing his own name, one of the men looked up, and glanced
towards the spot where the young girl stood. His eyes met hers, and a
flush overspread his face; then, after a momentary struggle, which
depicted itself in the workings of his countenance, he exclaimed: 'Let
the boy go: we have injured him enough already. He is innocent.'
'What do you mean?' inquired the magistrate; while a look of heartfelt
gratitude from Lucille urged Giraud to proceed.
'André knows nothing of this robbery,' he continued; 'his sole
connection with us arises from a promise we gave him, to find him
employment in Paris; and all the money he received we took from him
under the pretence of doing so. Yesterday morning, we met him for the
purpose of again deceiving him, but failed. He had a louis-d'or; but it
had been given him by his fiancée, that he might return home, and he
was determined to fulfil his promise. I would have taken his last sou;
for he'--and the destined forçat ground his teeth--'for he owed me a debt!

However,' he continued recklessly, 'it is all over now. I am off for the
galleys, that's clear enough; and before starting, I would do something
for Lucille.'
'How had the accused harmed you?' asked the magistrate.
Giraud hesitated; but Madame Delmont came forward, and exclaimed:
'I will tell you, monsieur. He wished to marry my daughter himself; and
I,' she added, in a tone of deep self-reproach, 'would almost have forced
her to consent.'
The same evening, Madame Delmont, André, and Lucille were seated
together, conversing upon what had passed, and deliberating as to the
best means of accomplishing an immediate return to Normandie, when
a gentle tap was heard at the door, and the old hairdresser entered the
room. He appeared embarrassed; but at length, with a great effort
restraining his emotion, he placed a little packet in Lucille's hand, and
exclaimed: 'Here, child, I did not give you half enough for that
beautiful hair of yours. Take this, and be sure you say nothing about it
to any one, especially to Mademoiselle Adelaide;' and without waiting
for one word of thanks, he was about to hurry away, when he was
stopped by Mademoiselle de Varenne in person.
'Ah, Monsieur Lagnier,' she merrily exclaimed, 'this is not fair. I hoped
to have been the first; and yet I am glad that you forestalled me,' she
added, as she looked into the bright glistening eyes of the old
hairdresser. 'My father has just arrived in town, Lucille,' she continued,
after a short pause, 'and he is interested in you all. He offers André the
porter's lodge at the château, and I came here immediately to tell you
the good news. It is not very far from your old home, and I am sure you
will like it. Do not forget to take with you this poor rose-tree; it looks
like you, quite pale for want of air. There! you must not thank me,' she
exclaimed, as Madame Delmont, André, and Lucille pressed eagerly
forward to express their gratitude: 'it is I, rather, that should thank you.
I never knew till now how very happy I might be.'
And as Adelaide de Varenne pronounced these words, a bright smile
passed across her face. The old hairdresser gazed admiringly upon her,

and doubted for a moment whether the extraordinary loveliness he saw
owed any part of its charm to the lock of false hair.

CLOUDS OF LIGHT.
In March of the year 1843, a remarkable beam of light shot suddenly
out from the evening twilight, trailing itself along the surface of the
heavens, beneath the belt stars of Orion. That glimmering beam was the
tail of a comet just whisked into our northern skies, as the rapid
wanderer skirted their precincts in its journey towards the sun. To the
watchful eyes of our latitudes, the unexpected visitant presented an
aspect that was coy and modest in the extreme; its head, indeed, was
scarcely ever satisfactorily in sight. But it dealt far otherwise with the
more favoured climes of the south. At the Cape of Good Hope, it was
seen distinctly in full daylight, and almost touching the solar disk; and
at night appeared with the brilliancy of a first-class star, with a
luminous band flowing out from it to a distance some hundred times
longer than the moon's face is wide. Few persons who caught a glimpse
of that shining tail, either as it fitfully revealed itself in our heavens, or
as it steadily blazed upon the opposite hemisphere of the earth, were led
to form adequate notions of the magnificence of the object they were
contemplating. No one, unaided by the teaching of science, could have
conceived that the streak of