Seven oclock.--It is  of my UncleMaurice ter. o t t  die; but notanding ticipations, o live,suffering and deformed.

    tractions ofc for y. In vain ttle o the world:

    t  its way.

    ill  o  ted all t repelled by oter, and ake o content . ion roi is tax on provisions levied at trance of totle toll- trance of ive town.

    up in t square, ion from ts but reading and s.

    On fine summer days so  t, under tis planted by Maurice. And, even ing-needles; rials;  ionately on t bowed neck,and exch her!

    t o be taken from  to give up all  tion  names, ried to return o ansheforehead of her son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever!

    tried to take Maurice a ed t noionless form.

    quot;Dead!quot; cried ;dead! S me, s t;

    A stifled voice replied:

    quot;God!quot;

    Maurice, startled, raised  a last sig  seek to kno ood ted it.

    It  I first kne to see tletoll-old me  stories,and let me gaternalattractiveness, o all ed to everytlepatience; and cs of ioners, ed , quot;Fat ;

    No oty, zeal, and intelligence; but t ed y. As rons, terable to make to be granting ting o live. UncleMaurice bore injustice as empt; unfairly treated by men,rusted in tice of be deceived.

    not as forlorn as tle garret, into o recommend  cion to it. So any ot.

    S interest and  relaxation; a depressing gloomseemed to envelop ion affected Maurice; tempted to speak to  in fe o see t sude to ttle, and said no more.

    But toinettes n