But where the widow's tear-drop may be dried,
And where the orphan wanders sad and lone,
Where poverty its grieving head may hide,
Will breathe the music of her voice's tone;
And if her face was blest with beauty rare
'Mid gilded sighs and worldly vanity,
When heavenly peace has left its impress there
Its loveliness from earthly stain is free.
LE PETIT SOULIER.
A STORY: IN TWO PARTS.
BY IK. MARVEL.
PART I.
I have said that the Abbé G—— had a room in some dark corner of a hotel in the Rue de Seine, or Rue de la Harpe—which of the two it was I really forget. At any rate, the hotel was very old, and the street out of which I used to step into its ill-paved, triangular court, was very narrow, and very dirty.
At the end of the court, farthest from the heavy gateway, was the box of the concierge, who was a brisk little shoemaker, forever bethwacking his lap-stone. If I remember right, the hammer of the little cordonnier made the only sound I used to hear in the court; for though the house was full of lodgers, I never saw two of them together, and never heard them talking across the court from the upper windows, even in mid-summer.