"Dieu m'en garde !" said the girl.

"With reason,"

said I; "for if it is a good one, 'tis pity it should be stolen; 'tis a little treasure to thee, and gives a better air to your face, than if it was dressed out with pearls."

The young girl listened with submissive attention, holding her satin purse by its riband in her hand all the time.

""Tis a very small one," said I, taking hold of the bottom of it (she held it towards me), "and there is very little in it, my dear," said I; "but be but as good as thou art handsome, and heaven will fill it."

I had a parcel of crowns in my hand to pay for Shakespere; and, as she had let go the purse entirely, I put a single one in; and, tying up the riband in a bow-knot, returned it to her.

The young girl made me a more humble courtesy than a low one: 'twas one of those quiet, thankful sinkings, where the spirit bows itself down-the body does no more than tell it. I never gave a girl

a crown in my life which gave me half the pleasure.

"My advice, my dear, would not have been worth a pin to you," said I, “if I had not given this along with it; but now, when you see the crown, you'll remember it so don't, my dear, lay it out in ribands."

"Upon my word, sir," said the girl earnestly, "I am incapable; " in saying which, as is usual in little bargains of honour, she gave me her hand: “En vérité, monsieur, je mettrai cet argent à part," said she.

When a virtuous convention is made betwixt man and woman, it sanctifies their most private walks: so, notwithstanding it was dusky, yet, as both our roads lay the. same way, we made no scruple of walking along the Quai de Conti together.

She made me a second courtesy in setting off; and, before we had got twenty yards from the door, as if she had not done enough before, she made a sort of a little stop to tell me again—she thanked me.

"It was a small tribute," I told her,

"which I could not avoid paying to virtue, and would not be mistaken in the person I had been rendering it to for the world; but I see innocence, my dear, in your face, and foul befall the man who ever lays a snare in its way."

The girl seemed affected, some way or other, with what I said: she gave a low sigh: I found I was not empowered to inquire at all after it, so said nothing more till I got to the Rue de Nevers, where we were to part.

"But is this the way, my dear," said I, "to the Hôtel de Modène?”

She told me it was, or that I might go by the Rue de Guénégaud, which was the

next turn.

"Then I'll go, my dear, by the Rue de Guénégaud," said I, "for two reasons; first, I shall please myself, and next, I shall give you the protection of my company as far on your way as I can."

The girl was sensible I was civil, and said she wished the Hôtel de Modène was in the Rue de St. Pierre.

"You live there?" said I.

She told me she was fille de chambre to

Madame R-.

"Good God!" said I,

"'tis the very lady

for whom I have brought a letter from Amiens."

The girl told me that Madame R——, she believed, expected a stranger with a letter, and was impatient to see him; so I desired the girl to present my compliments to Madame R-, and say, I would certainly wait upon her in the morning.

We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this passed. We then stopped a moment whilst she disposed of her "Egarements du Cœur," &c., more commodiously than carrying them in her hand—they were two volumes; so I held the second for her whilst she put the first into her pocket; and then she held her pocket, and I put in the other after it.

'Tis sweet to feel by what fine-spun threads our affections are drawn together.

We set off afresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her hand within my arm—

I was just bidding her, but she did it of herself with that undeliberating simplicity, which shewed it was out of her head that she had never seen me before. For my own part, I felt the conviction of consanguinity so strongly, that I could not help turning half round to look in her face, and see if I could trace out anything in it of a family likeness. "Tut!"

said I,

66 are we not all relations?"

When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Guénégaud, I stopped to bid her adieu for good and all; the girl would thank me again for my company and kindness. She bid me adieu twice. I repeated it as often; and so cordial was the parting between us, that, had it happened anywhere else, I am not sure but I should have signed it with a kiss of charity, as warm and holy as an apostle.

But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men, I did what amounted to the same thing I bid God bless her!