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Lomaque, persuasively. "Take my advice,"
he continued confidentially to the hunchback,
"and don't trust too implicitly to that
slippery memory of yours, after our little drinking
bout yesterday. You could not really
have read their names at the grate, you know,
or of course they would be down on the list.
As for the waiting-room at the tribunal, a
word in your ear: chief-agents of police know
strange secrets. The president of the court
condemns and pardons in public; but there
is somebody else, with the power often
thousand presidents, who now and then condemns
and pardons in private. You can guess who.
I say no more, except that I recommend you
to keep your head on your shoulders, by
troubling it about nothing but the list there
in your hand. Stick to that literally, and
nobody can blame you. Make a fuss about
mysteries that don't concern you, and——"

Lomaque stopped, and, holding his hand
edgewise, let it drop significantly over the
hunchback's head. That action, and the hints
which preceded it, seemed to bewilder the
little man more than ever. He stared
perplexedly at Lomaque; uttered a word or two
of rough apology to his subordinate, and
rolling his mis-shapen head portentously,
walked away with the death-list crumpled up
nervously in his hand.

"I should like to have a sight of them, and
see if they really are the same man and
woman whom I looked after yesterday morning
in the waiting-room," said Lomaque,
putting liis hand on the cell-door, just as the
deputy-gaoler was about to close it again.

"Look in, by all means," said the man.
"No doubt you will find that drunken booby
as wrong in what he told you about them, as
he is about everything else."

Lomaque made use of the privilege granted
to him immediately. He saw Trudaine sitting
with his sister in the corner of the cell
farthest from the door, evidently for the
purpose of preventing her from overhearing the
conversation outside. There was an unsettled
look, however, in her eyes, a slowly-heightening
colour in her cheeks, which showed her
to be at least vaguely aware that something
unusual had been taking place in the corridor.
Lomaque beckoned to Trudaine to leave her;
and whispered to him—"The prescription
has worked well. You are safe for to-day.
Break the news to your sister as gently as
you can. Danville—" He stopped and
listened till he satisfied himself, by the sound
of the deputy-gaoler's footsteps, that the man
was lounging towards the farther end of the
corridor. "Danville," he resumed, "after
having mixed with the people outside the
grate, yesterday, and having heard your names
read, was arrested, in the evening, by secret
order from Robespierre, and sent to the
Temple. What charge will be laid to him,
or when he will be brought to trial, it is
impossible to say. I only know that he is
arrested. Hush! don't talk now; my friend
outside is coming back. Keep quiethope
everything from the chances and changes of
public affairs; and comfort yourself with the
thought that you are both safe for to-day."

"And to-morrow?" whispered Trudaine.

"Don't think of to-morrow," returned
Lomaque, turning away hurriedly to the
door. " Let to-morrow take care of itself."

THE FLOWERS' PETITION.

We flowers and shrubs in cities pent,
From fields and country places rent
(Without our own or friends' consent),
          In desperate condition,
Yet on no wilful outrage bent,
          Do humbly here petition.

Whereas: Against our silent wills,
With loss of sun and purling rills,
Cooped up in pots, on window-sills,
          In ricketty old boxes
The city's breath our beauty kills,
          And makes us gray as foxes;

Condemn'd in walls of brick and lime,
In narrow beds of clay and slime.
To ope our buds and shed our prime
          We need some kind defender;
We pray, oh, let us live our time!
          And we are very tender!

Oh, cheat us not of heaven's dews;
Nor air (however stale) refuse:
God knows 'tis little we can use,
          So choked are all our vitals:
No slightest care will we abuse,
          Nor fail in fond requitals.

We'll breathe you delicate perfumes:
We'll glad your eyes with choicest blooms;
But do not shut us up in rooms,
          Or stifling, crowded places
The sky, in clouds and light, assumes
          To us far lovelier faces.

Our sooty and bedraggled fate,
(Our ever-greens turn chocolate)
Do we ascribe to spite or hate?
          No; we are sure you love us;
Yet, half-ashamed, we beg to state
          We love the sun above us.

Then treat us in your gentlest ways,
And next unto the sun's own rays,
With beauty's homage, incense-praise,
          We ever will caress you,
And to the ending of our days
          In grateful silence bless you.

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

We know in England much of the
contents of the post-bag from the Crimea,
and have been taught by the letters sent
from persons in the army to their wives and
mothers, that an English soldier, although
a member of the lowest rank and file, has
such a thing as a heart under his ribs,

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