■fliout any ostensible business as if he LeCrccsus himself. This winter Wash • jfon lias vac* tue benefit of his lavish tnenditure, while hundreds in that far iLtown are suffering the direst penury to pay *'or ils ma on"' ucenco- The story ■ jjne so unpleasantly common that the , r hr left, but society had smiled for L]her sweetest welcomes, and Miss—— , S sparagraphed as au heiress ! To what ? I/Anna S.. H. in Cleaeeand Plain- p£AtEK.]

Ninon's Prince.

3 jj ff as'the sieso of Paris. Eugehie had | I ju'fipttttha Tuiierlos. the provisional] I, j' ove rnnient liad been organized under 1 froeliu. All Paris was in a state of wild ■larni, and the Prussian armies were 3 gteacli'ly mating their way toward the t itf, investing one point after another, snd'rapidly cutting off all communication ' between the besieged city and the sur rounding country. Winter was coming oir food and fuel becoming scarcce; 8 'business was entirely suspended; the: 1 boulevard's were iilled with idle, aimless' I longarS; gazing with sad hungry eyes * 'upon the long' defiles of troops that march ;ei before them. The heavy rumble of the i ! grtilerv wagons echoed through the 8 streets with terrible suggestions of the; 1 dead and wounded for whose conveyence r (hey were prepared. The air was heavy t -flith madness; Paris shuddered at the 1 thought of the suffering that it must t encounter, and a bitter wail arose from ' the lips of the poor. Into the quiet and aristocratic precincts ! oftlieFaubourtc St. Honore the grim i "ghosts of famine and bloodshed had not t made their way. and the luxurious entresol i ' ofthe fashionable hotel where TNiDon, the i gay little Baronno de Valcour, took up '■ 'herusual abode during tlu gay Parisian ; winters was all alight with suashino and > ■I flowers. Ninon horself was the dullest j I -thing amidst all the brilliant glitter of : J ■orinola, gilding and looking-glass. She ?■ 'was leaning back in her cushioned fauteuil ' mta the toes of her slippers extended I towards the firo and her head thrown back wearily, looking the very personifica tion of ennui. ".'Would madamo eat her breakfast?' 'inqires Fifine, with solicitude, as she arranges tho inevitable rolls and coffee on a small table by her mistress's side ■'Ninon, opens her eyes and shuts them again, and the coffee grows cold. Fifine' knows her fate. If this cup of coffee is spoiled, in half an hour she tpf/l be called : np'on to prepare a fresh one,. so Fifine 'ventures another suggestion ? 'Madame has no appetite ?'. . . 'Fifine, you bother me, Go away.' Fifine .departs, but returns again in tho space of two minutes : 'Mdilarm*, voici monsieur.' Madame turns h'3C. protty little head, and talces a comprehensive glance at the tall yoing ofiicer in the uniform of the National Guard, who enters the salon and makes lm^way to her side. • Ttie Prassianshavenot eaten you up yet ?'inquires Ninon, with a yawn that ,she does not take pains to conceal. ]r, 'Not yet. Would ifc be a great source ,of relief to raadame if such an event were to take place ?' .', 'Bather.' ■. • - ' '. 'T)pu't you care for mo at all,. Ninon ?' : Don!t.be silly, my child. Tell me what 'his Excellency General Trochu is about, ,! aiidwli.cn you propose to stain that beau tiful uniform with Prussian gore,' 'Poor Paris!' Tho young officer siglied aud shook his-head. 'Paris is very nice—all but the Prus 'siaas; and no one is giving any parties. "Thatannoys me.' ;;f'"Ninon, are you really as heartless as you seem?' ' Tell me you love me, Ninon I just a"little.' ? 'But I don't.' . The boyish lips trembled, and a great wave of sorrow spread itself over the fair, . fresh countenance. Then he knelt down by her side, and a single tear fell on the little hand that he stooped to kiss. - 'Ninon, Ninon, won't you love me P ■: ''You are a great stupid boy, and you must go away, or I shall never eat my , breakfast. You arc a very nice boy, ' l Armand, but you look as if you were going Jo cry. -'. 'JS inon !' Tho word sounded like a cry .of pain. Then, he kissed her hands again and , turned away to leave her. \ 'I shall not come again, Ninon.' ' Madame le Baronne disfigured her .pretty mouth with an incredulous little , move, and the door closed upon her , boyish lover, Paris in a state of siege—a city of two . million- inhabitants surrounded by the [ forces .of a. powerful enemy, and all supplies 'cutoff! Daily the distress and destitution , increased. Famine and disease reaped a "rich harvest among the poorer inhabitants. The short winter days were grim and cold, -and the scanty supply of fuel aud food ;,;.'£rew less and less' every hour. The wete filled with a gaunt and hungry crowd of desperate men and despairing women. Emeutes broke out in all parts ofthe city, and the useless bayonets ofthe National Guard were turned to destroy their own fellow-citizens. The sounds of distress and suffering began to make themselves heard even in tie luxurious quarters of the Faubourg St. Honore, where Ninon de "Valcour wore out her days wailing over the dullness and dreariness "of the gay capital. The high prices demanded for all the necessaries of life began to exhaust even the princely

De Valcour revenues. The establishment must be reduced. Baroness Ninon awoke out of her long dream of luxury aud laziness to face life for the first time seriously. The days wore on; a dreary Christmas was approaching, and the bitter cold steadily increasing. The wild eyes of tho swarming populace grew hungrier and hungrier; tho weak died, and the strong lived only to suffer. Terrible reports ofthe distress and misery about her made their way to Ninon. Her friends gathered around, but their discourse was only of the horror of the siege. One among Ninon's friends was missing —the quick, eager tread of Armand de ltocheccDur sounded no more in Ninon's salon. The boyish form of the young officer, with his untarnished uniform and unused sword, appeared no more among her guests. And when she found that he did not como, Ninon began to miss him. At first she smiled at, his absence, then insensibly she began to watch for his coming, and as the days passed one after another, Ninon grew anxious. Sometimes she would sit alone in the twilight—the lonely littla baroness, rich in everything but love —and the sweet lips would mur mur, ' At least he loved me, le bebe.' Then a deep, far-off look would come into tho brilliant eyes. ' Where is the prince ?'

It was the evening of the 29th of Novem ber. Ninon was sitting alone, watching the slow motions of the hands of tho clock as they pointed to cloven, when a quick, heavy tread soundod behind the chair, and the clanking of a sword startled her.

.' Armand !' she exclaimed, as she turned and encountered the excited glance of the young soldier. 'Yes, Ninon. At lasfc Paris is roused. Tho order has been given. With a' hundred thousand men we'"shall leave Paris, march upon Champigny—on to Villiers. Ducrot has sfforn to re enter Paris ' only victorious or dead.' I have come to say good-by. Before ro-rnorrow nis;ht Prussian ball or bayonet may have quietod forever the heart that loves you sol passionately. Kiss mo, Ninon ; say ' God bless you." Then he sank down at her feet, and laid his head upon the little hands that rested on her knee.

Ninon lifted the brown hair from the fair young forehead; a moment her lips rested there, and she murmur°d, ' God bless you, my Armand !' Then he pressed her for a moment passionately against his heart, and left her.

In the morning the troops were in motion. Paris thr -•''';■-' 1 the streets and crowded the windows on each side to watch the sad procession as it passed. Cheer after cheer rent the air; 'Vive la France !' ' A la'Victoire!' sounded from the throats of tht;. lookers-on as the long defilo Wound its way to the gates. The Well drilled men marched silently along, their countenance's grave and severe. They were about to make a last effort for Paris —for France. With stern and set dcterraiaationtheymoved forward,looking neither to right nor left, lest the sorrowful faces of the women they loved should unnerve their hearts and unsteady their hands. After them followed the artillery, the wagons loaded with provisions, and ■—oh, sickeming sight!—tile ambulances that would convey so many of the brave men now leaving the city with buoyant tread back again within its walls, wounded, helpless and dying. At the head of his company rode Armand de EochecoDur. With his head erect;, 'and lips firmly compressed to avoid their trembling, he led his men past the windows of the boulevared where Ninon de Valcour stood watching the exit of the troops from the city. He did not turn his head, but the hand that held tho bridle rein shook as the heavy tread of his powerful horse bore him slowly beyond the gaze of the bright eyes that looked down upon him. Quietly Ninon watched him go, steadily she looked after his retreating form. A soft mist clouded the flashing eyes, and as the distance hid him from view she murmured, gently,' Armand, God watch over thee !' All day long, that terrible 30fch of November, the incessant roar of cannon echoed back into the stillness of the city's street. Paris held her breath in anguish. Her best, her bravest, and her noblest were fighting for her deliverance, in deadly peril, just outside the city walls. Outside the wails the sickening drama of battle, with all its horrid accompaniments of tumult, noise and bloodshed ; inside, the no less horrible torture of suspense, as those left behind waited with blanched faces and bated breath for news from the scene of conflict. Among the foremost in the strife on that terrible morning rode the boyish officer, Armand de Kochecceur. The pure : blood of his Norman ancestry courses wildly through his veins to-day. France was his life, and he would give his life for France. His hatred of the plebeian Bonapartes, of the odious republic, were all forgotten when for the first time he found himself face to face with the foreign foe who dared to attack the very capital, and strike at the heart of his sacred land of France. Early in the afternoon Champigny yielded to the passionate attack of the fresh French troops. Amazed at their defeat, the Germans fell back to recover from this—almost their first—reverse. Then, rallying from their surprise, re-enforcsd with fresh troops, and protect ed by their batteries, they fell upon the French with a sudden fury. Dismayed completely by this fierce and unexpected

attack, weary with a long day's fighting, the half-diciplined French soldiery fell back. With a wild feeling, half fury— half despair, Armand saw the line give way. 'Cowards!'he murtered under his breath. Then, turning suddenly to his men, he cried :

'Courage! Will you go back to your women and tell them you fled before Prussian guns ? On !on ! Conquer, or die like Frenchmen!'

Then he rode forward ; but the terrified panic stricken men were deaf to his call, and suffered him to go alone. With his right arm uplifted he rushed toward tho Prussian line. With the cry still on His lips, a fragment of shell struck the power ful right arm, shattered it as if it were the rotten branch of a tree, and tore its way across the fair, boyish forhead just above the eyes. Prone on the earth lay the powerful form of the brave young officer. A cry of admiration rose from the lips ofthe men behind him. Then they turned and fled, and left him to his fate. * * * * * *

The evening shadows fell over the battle plain, quieting the noise and strife; the fighting ceased. The Prussian guns were silent, and the French troops retired sullenly back toward Paris. On the battle field dusky forms came flitting about. With sable uniforms, relieved only by the red cross of Geneva, they went silently about on their merciful errands. Two of these ministering spirits bent over the form of Armand de Kochecoeur. ' Dead ? poor fellow !' asks one. * No, he breathes.5 Then they lifo him gently on the ambu lance ; and the brave young officer, who rode out from the gates of Paris that morning full of life, and health, and courage, is borne back again blind, maimed, the light gone out of hi 3 eyes forever, and the powerful form with its strength and beauty forever crippled. They lay him on a narrow bed in a crowded hospital. The gentle hands of a Sister of Charity dress the terrible wounds, and as sho looks at him she murmurs, pityingly, ' Poor fellow, ho is blind !'

Ninon has listened all day to the sound of that terrible cannonading, waited all night in frightful suspense for news from tho scene of buttle—for tidings from Armand de Rocheceeur. In the morning no word had come, and the suspense grows more aud more intolerable every moment. Dark circles have appeared under the brown eyes, and their brilliancy is faded, gone out in • that long night of, watching. Kestlessly Ninon paces tho salon.. Finally a sudden, impulse seizes her. 'I will go and find him.' It is a long and weary search. They direct her fro.n one place to another. The streets are filled with a hurrying, eager crowd, each intent upon-his own affairs, and ft is long before she can find any one who can tell her where to look for him. At last they direct her to the hospital where he is'lying. Ninon passes between the long rows of beds,; sees the suffering faces of the men that fill them, listens to the groans of the suffering and dying, and the tears fill her eyes and roll down upon her blanching cheeks. 'It is too much for madame to witness,' suggests a young surgeon. ' No, no ;if they must suffer it, why should I not sac it ?' and the spoiled child of luxury' braces up her nerves and goes on to meet the sorrow that lies before her. ' '

She finds him at last. As she approaches his bedside she trembles. She looks at the white bandages that lay upon his" eyes^ and shudders. Then she speaks ■to him, and tho glad smile tuat flits across his rlips re-assures her. His single hand goes out to meet hers, and he: tries to Speak.: A warning gesture from the nurse attracts Ninon's attention, and she whispers, 'Do not talk. Armand. You must get well first.' ' '"'•' \

From an old soldier who watches over him Ninon-learns the history ofthe sortie. As she listens to the story of how bravely the young soldier bore himself on' that dreadful day, and how her fell, when, goaded to fury by the desertion of his men, he rushed forward alone on the Prussian line, JNinon's heart swells with a new and happy emotion. The lovely mouth wears its happiest smile. There is a look of newly-found happiness in the brown eyes. Suddenly they fill with tears, and the little lips murmur softly, 'I have found him, the prince.' Then the Sister of Charity comes and whispers, gently and pityingly, ' Madame, he will be blind.' All the horror contained in that dreadful sentence sinks into Ninon's soul, and with a voice whose utterance is choked with sobs she cries out, ' Armand, my love! God help you!' Then she lifts her tear-stained face, lit up with its wonderful light of love and pity, and looking at the sympathetic coun tenance of the poor Sister, whispers, f lie shall see with my eyes.' The Sister looks into the depth of the lovely eyes raised to hers and thiuks, ■' Ji! e is not so much to be pitied, the brave man.' Through long nights of fever and days of weary restlessness Niuou watches by her lover's side. Strength returns to the crippled body, but the sorrowful eyes wear always that helpless, vacant expres sion peculiar to the blind, and the strong right arm is represented only by an empty sleeve. . j He is not forbidden to speak now ; and one day as he hears Ninon's footsteu by his bedside, and the soft rustle of her dress as she bends over him, he says, ' You are always with me, Ninon, are you not, or do I dream it ?' • I am always with you, Armand.'

' What brings youhere ?' '. ' Because I love you, dear.', . ' Love me ? But I am! a cripple and blind.' . . ' Ml'; '• , V

• Yes, Armand, your right arm and your eyes you have given to France.'; "WTill yoi} give the rest to me?' '■'■ '. ' Ninon !' and the left arm,' the. only one he has, draws' her quickjy and passionately; to Kis side. Her soft'.'b'reatli;plays against his cheek,' and as hiji lips' mfee't'hers,"' she whispers :\ > ; ~.,',.. ' Armandi my prince; iToVe yoif.^ ' ; ' '

Teresa.

Chapter I. Light, heat, beauty, life-giving South ! The artist seeks it for its glorious depths of colour ; the poet for its classic tradi tipns and dreamy influences ; the inva lid for its balmy breath a'n,d reviving warmth which stir the pulsos that in Northern lands would cease to beat. Lionel Mcr'ton, half popt> half artist, and half invalid, sought it for life, both of mind . and body; and his delicate frame—shattered by the chill blasts of the North —woke to a nevr boing in the soft Ausonian climate, whilst his artists eye glanced with, a pleased delight over luxuriant plains and olive-planted slopes, with here and there a glimpse of the yellow Tiber flowing majestically along, He was just now standing.in .the door way of the,inn,, gazing, not at the .land scape or the skies, but at a face that had attracted his attention moro than once since liis arrival at .fTe had seen it. fir^t in tlie beautiful gardens of the villa, not far from the inn, peering through the; parted branches of a myrtle, whose dai'li'J flossy leaves seemed a fitting frame-;\vorki for the living picture behind them. But; the branches had closed hastily, as tlu*: girl met the blue eyes of Lionel fixed! steadily upon tier.' :,'•,.'. , .' '~' ! 'We must go home, Tina,' sni'ct shd to; the cliild who was watching the doves' ■ wash themselves in the feasin of. the* fountain, and she swung it;: up to lidr, shoulder, where it wound its tiny hands' in her dark hair, loosening some of thri coils that fell heavily down below hcii waist. A flush came over the pale o^ivu skin. ' Thou art a bad child, Tina !'she s'aidj as she hastily twisted up the long tr'essea un-fer the folds of her white head-gewr. The large lusirous eyes had blit looked at Lionel tor a. moment, and yet they seemed to have told him a long story that he had been in the past trying id decipher. j : Next he had seen her in church, frneeli ing in fervent prayer, and had ; silently 'watched the changes of countenance until again she perceived him, arid with a startled look rose and fled 'away. ' '

To day Teresa-stood- loaning against a stone pillar, playing with the pinkblosj so:n of a.catalpa that stood ' near ■ her ', when suddenly she found herself once more face to face with the English s'tf anger. 11.6 bad discovered her name—Teresa ; dauguteir of blind Thomas Oecchi and his bed-ridden wife. She was a very good daughter, and worked hard to support her parents.' To-day she seemed to be taking life easily—drinking' in the Ji*are splendour of the purple mists and golden sheets of sunlight with -pure Italian indolence. ' • ' . '

"Dolce far niente !' thought Lionel, as ho looked at tho; statue-like' figuro',' and the head thrown back ■ partly with weari ness, partly with an'm'tenso ap'prc'cidiibn of the beauty around her. '<'■ :r; ; j

But Teresa's re^Mw'as nbt'tc be of long duration. The Mcrcanti of the Campagna had sent for laborers to gather in the harvest, and men'and women were forming ih'tio bands to join in the work. 'Teresa' was going, so gossip had told Lionel, and to him it seemed a sacrilege'that the beautiful maiden should' toil and slave with the common multitude; But what could he dor Arid ifr'tluv-'rni<ls?fc'Idf his meditations the girl raised her face, and again their eyes met. 'Teresa!' The name burst involnutary from his lips.

She started and blu?hod, but this timo did not flee away. She looked up at Lionel. ' Si, signore/ she answered. ' That is a pretty flower,' said Lionel* ' will you not give it to me ?' . She made no reply, but put the blossom into his hand. And so the acquaintance was made and the two chatted away in the sunshine. Chapter 11. Lionel had gone to Tomaso Cecchi's lodging. ' Butyour daughter is not strong enough for such wort,' said he, in conclusion to a long harangue. ' The old man shrugged his shoulders. ' Poverty,' said he, ' is a bard master, and Teresa is a good girl.' 'Too good to endanger her life in the toils of the Campagna. Think of the risk, the lobor, the heat, the foul evening mists.' But Tqraaso looked back beyond the discomforts and remembered a time "when the plains resounded with songs and laughter, and the wine was broached and hearts were light. • I found my wife there,' said he, *' and Teresa may find a husband.' Lionel instinctively drew back. ' A husband among these laboring peasants, impossible; for in his eyes Teresa was worthy to be the bride of a king. • Cau you not find a substitute for your daughter? 1 ' and then he hesitated, for Teresa had come into the room.

'How much will it cost to get a substitute,, Teresa P' ~',': Teresa laughed. . *'. '.'.'. ', ' (xib vanet ta' would, pay if she could to go in'my 'place,' said; she. ' There are too mariy ready and willing to go.' •'.Let.them go .then,' responded Lionel, eagerly, ''';, ' ';;; ) ;',• '. . ;, ',ThJ9 fiignpre forgets 'we must have mon'e'y^'.returiiea Teresa."'.',\' \ ilhinliing of wKat!he was doing LipnMJSaa poilfe'd'oi|t' ,the contents, of a mnktm pi :',E^mmjo upon the table: The. --<\ysfik ;, ear .of. t Toinaso'caught, the sound ;_ he; 's'trc'tch'e(l diiit his hand as if to catch the ringing coin, but Teresa sprang between, turning a,flashing face upon Lionel. ; , ...."•' 'We are' not beggars ! she exclaimed, 11 work for my bread.' _' Will you not let me help you?' asked Lionel, in alow tone. ' You cannot,' slie replied, in an equally low voice ; and the flash died out of her face, for Lionel's tone was. very humble, and his "eyes had spoken something to her that her heari answered. She gathered "the money together and put it iuto his hands.. 'It must not be,' she said, as he sorrowfully departed. "Thou are a fool, child,' said Tomaso Ce'c'ohi, when Lionel was oat of hearing. 'Thijsb English' know not what to do with their gold', and we" should have been all Ih'e better for.it. >; ;.''', ' Chapter ill. . Slowly plodded "the, large gray oxen over the plains of the tjampagna; lazily saun tered1 the drivers at their side. Here and flu-re one heard1 the sounds of merriment; there agftinwere silent toilers ; here worn out laborers who had crept into lho ; shade ana: fallen a\sk>e.p,: and above, stretched the Blue hesivt'hsi still and cloudless, over the gray and purple sweeps of far-off land scape, with here and1, there a patch of sun r' ■' ■ A if this-Lionel saw, for he had obtained a lodging in one\ of the large stone farm houses; sincß money will obtain anything; and the fair delidate' looking generous Englishman was popular among the poor Italian peasants. Teresa knew that he was there, but she avoided him ; and, he, seeing this, only watched her from a distance, and gave no more token that she wasmore to him than any other laborer on lha vast plains. He had sfen-Tomaso find his wife before he bad followed to the Oampagna, and they were amply pprovided for during their daughter's absence. ! \ Lionel .Merton had fallen in love, and ho satdp.wn and took; the matter in deliberate consideration. 'His first.thought was that Teresa was a queen ;-fit to be the wife of any pan, was his second: why not of him self ?• was-the-.third!; and that she should, if possible, r w^3 the fourth. Yet how to proceed wa'-s the ; he felt, with all the keen sensitiveness of an Englishman ,to absurd situations,; that he was some what absurdly placed at the present moment; for Teresaj calmly pursuing her work,.gavo him no opportunity of address ingher without bringing the eyes of the multitude upon himself and the handsome maiden. Chapter IV. : Teresa wa9 the ono ta broak the silence. She feared.the pestilential breath that com?S] with the chill blasts and heavy dewmafter the.heat of the day might take efleqt, on : Lionel Mjjrton. She .noted a lassitude -and. Jeverishuess, which .he •imputed tohis,state qf-mind, and suddenly ■ she iippear.ed. before; Jam.- r'i ro . ' iStgnortyyou niust fleo from honco, or you will,die IV; ■.' ■;■ ,\ \- ■•,.-. , ■.i And you.-will ha re killed me, Teresa.' 'iNio; it is the poisonous mists of the C^uipagna.' ...'•: . .., ; ' Wha,t .brought bo, hither to breathe thpm ?.', asked Lionel, .abruptly. I f The signore forgets that I begged him not to think of so rash a scheme,' replied Teresa, evading the question. ' For me ,who. am accustomed to the changes it is safe ; for the signuroit is death, and he must: go.' ■■>■• • Whither?' , . ~ , . .'Back. toFrascati, if he .so wills it; or, better^ perhaps, away from Italy.' ' I cannot live away from Italy; it is my life, my hope; and here I can study art and make myself a home. Here I can be happy, and yet you send me away !'. ' 1 have told the signore that I am not fitted for his wife.: Besides, my duty is to my parents ; I must tend them till they die.i ' Yet you leava them now !' ''Only for their benefit*' 'It would benefit them, more if you 'were my wife/ • But Teresa shook her head mournfully. 'Nbn'e possibile,' she said decidedly. ' Yet you love me, Teresa ?' ' Yes,' said she, with emotion ; ' but I must'do my duty. I have made a vow nofc to marry so long as my parents live.' ' It is si foolish vow,' said Lionel. ' It is nevertheless a vow,' she replied firmly. 1 Signore,; you must gd. Addio, addio !' But as she spoke a sudden shiV9ring seizftdller—the fever that she had dreaded for Lionel had fallen upon herself. :9|Teresa : had but a few friends among the laborers in' the-Oampagna ; but one woman, whom Lionel recognized as be longing to i?rascati, was willing enough to take the office of nurse in consideration of the lavish payment for it, and to accom pany her home when she was out of danger. Chapter V. Then Lionel turned his steps northward.

Evening Star Supplement, August 13, 18T6