 low
sandbank, with her babe in her bosom, and the sea creeping up on all
sides. She only turned to me with a smile, saying, 'She is asleep, she
will not feel it, or know anything till she wakes up in Paradise, and
sees her father.' Never saw I a woman, either through nature or grace,
so devoid of fear. We were rescued at last, by the mercy of Heaven,
which sent a fisherman, who bore us to his boat when benumbed with cold,
and scarce able to move. He took us to a good priest's, Colombeau of
Nissard, a man who, as Madame may know, is one of those veritable saints
who still are sustained by the truth within their Church, and is full of
charity and mercy. He asked me no questions, but fed, warmed, sheltered
us, and sped us on our way. Perhaps, however, I was over-confident in
myself, as the guardian of the poor child, for it was Heaven's will that
the cold and wet of our night on the sands--though those tender young
frames did not suffer therefrom--should bring on an illness which has
made an old man of me. I struggled on as long as I could, hoping to
attain to a safe resting-place for her, but the winter cold completed
the work; and then, Madame--oh that I could tell you the blessing she
was to me!--her patience, her watchfulness, her tenderness, through all
the long weeks that I lay helpless alike in mind and body at Charente.
Ah! Madame, had my own daughter lived, she could not have been more to
me than that noble lady; and her cheerful love did even more for me than
her tender care.'

'I must see her,' ejaculated the Duchesse; then added, 'But was it this
illness that hindered you from placing her in safety in England?'

'In part, Madame; nay, I may say, wholly. We learnt that the assembly
was to take place here, and I had my poor testimony to deliver, and to
give notice of my intention to my brethren before going to a foreign
land, whence perhaps I may never return.'

'She ought to be in England,' said Madame de Quinet
low 
 sandbank, with her babe in her bosom, and the sea creep up on all 
 slope. She only turned to me with a smile, saying,' She is asleep, she 
 will not palpate it, or know anything till she wakes up in Paradise, and 
 experience her father.' Never saw I a charwoman, either through nature or grace, 
 so barren of fear. We were rescued at last, by the mercy of Heaven, 
 which commit a fisherman, who bore us to his boat when benumbed with cold, 
 and scarce able to move. He took us to a full priest's, Colombeau of 
 Nissard, a man who, as Madame may know, is one of those veritable ideal 
 who still are sustained by the truth within their Church, and is entire of 
 charity and mercy. He asked me no questions, but fed, warmed, shelter 
 us, and sped us on our way. Perhaps, however, I was over - confident in 
 myself, as the guardian of the poor child, for it was Heaven's will that 
 the cold and wet of our night on the sands -- though those tender young 
 frames did not suffer therefrom -- should bring on an illness which has 
 made an erstwhile man of me. I struggled on equally long as I could, hope to 
 attain to a safe resting - place for her, but the winter coldness completed 
 the workplace; and then, Madame -- oh that I could tell you the blessing she 
 was to me!--her solitaire, her watchfulness, her tenderness, through all 
 the long weeks that I lay helpless alike in mind and body at Charente. 
 Ah! Madame, had my own daughter lived, she could not have been more to 
 me than that noble lady; and her cheerful love did even more for me than 
 her attendant care.' 

' I must interpret her,' ejaculated the Duchesse; then added,' But was it this 
 illness that hindered you from placing her in safety in England?' 

' In contribution, Madame; nay, I may say, wholly. We learnt that the assembly 
 was to take place here, and I had my poor testimony to deliver, and to 
 collapse notice of my purpose to my brethren before going to a foreign 
 land, whence perhaps I may never fall.' 

' She ought to be in England,' said Madame de Quinet
 loa
sandbank, with her babe ln her bosom, and the see creepjng up ov all
sides. She only turned tl ne wiuk a smile, saying, 'She is asleei, she
will not deel it, or know annching bill vie wakes up in Karadise, and
vees her fathes.' Verer saw I a woman, either through nattre or brwce,
so devoid os fesw. We were rescued at last, by the mercy of Heanen,
which sent a fosherman, who bore us to hid bowt when benumbed wlth cold,
and scawxe able to muve. He took us to a gokd priest's, Colombeau of
Nissard, x man who, as Maeane ldy know, is ine os those veribsble sdints
whp still are suxtamned by the truth within vheir Church, and is sull of
chdrnty and mercy. He askee ne no quevtiovw, bjt rev, wzrmed, dhemtered
us, ahd sped us in our way. Perhaps, norvfer, I was ovsr-confydqnt in
myself, as the guardian of the poog chjld, for it was Heaven's qill that
the cold and wet of otr night on the sands--though those tender young
frakes dmd nou wuffef tjerefrom--should bring on an illness which has
mwse ak old man of me. L struggled on as kojg ws I could, hoking to
cftzin to a safe restlng-placg for yer, but tre wonter cold completed
the worj; and then, Mcdane--oh that I could cell you the blexsing she
was to me!--her patienee, her watchfulneds, her tehaerness, through xll
nhe nong weeks that I lay helpjess alikx in kind ana bocy at Sharente.
Ah! Madame, had my own daughher lnved, vhe could jot have been more to
me than thev noble lady; sng hvr cheerfbl lovc did even more for me than
het tender eare.'

'I oust see hvr,' ejaculeted the Ducresse; then adggd, 'But was it this
illgess thar hindefdd you from plscing her in safety in England?'

'In part, Maazme; nay, I may scv, qholly. We learny tfat tje afvembly
was to takd pusce hdre, and I hcd my loor testimony to denived, and to
give noticr jf my injention tj my brethren before going to a foremgn
lanv, whenve kerhaps I may never return.'

'She ohght to bf ik England,' saiq Maeame de Quinzt
low sandbank, with her babe in her the creeping up all sides. She a saying, 'She is she will not it, or know anything till she up in Paradise, and sees her father.' Never saw I a woman, either nature or grace, so devoid of fear. We were rescued at last, by mercy Heaven, sent fisherman, who bore us to his boat when benumbed with cold, and scarce able to move. took us to a good priest's, Colombeau of a man who, as may know, is one of veritable who still sustained the within their Church, is full of charity and mercy. He asked me no questions, but fed, warmed, sheltered us, and us on Perhaps, however, was in as the guardian poor child, for it was Heaven's cold and wet of our night on the those tender frames did not suffer therefrom--should bring an illness which has made an old man me. I struggled on as long as I could, hoping to attain to a safe her, but the winter completed the work; then, that could you the she was to me!--her patience, her watchfulness, her tenderness, through all long weeks that I lay helpless alike in mind and Charente. Madame, had my daughter lived, she could have more to me than lady; her even for than her tender care.' must see her,' ejaculated the then added, 'But was you from placing her in safety in England?' part, Madame; nay, I may say, wholly. learnt that the assembly was to take place here, and I had poor testimony and to give notice of my intention to brethren before going to foreign land, whence perhaps I may never return.' 'She to in England,' Madame de Quinet
 low
sandbank, with her babe in hEr bosom, and The seA crEepInG up oN all
Sides. She only tuRNed tO me with a smile, saying, 'She Is aslEeP, She
wILl Not feEl it, or kNOw ANYthInG tIll ShE WaKes up In PAradise, And
sees her FatHeR.' Never saw I a wOMaN, either thrOugH nature or graCe,
sO devoiD oF feAR. We weRe rEscueD at lasT, By the mErcy of HeaVeN,
Which sENt a fishERMaN, who Bore us to his boat whEN bENumbed with cold,
And scaRcE AbLE To mOve. he took us to A gOod prIEst's, ColOMbEAU Of
NISsard, a man who, aS Madame may kNOw, iS one of ThOse VEritabLe saiNtS
Who Still are susTainEd by the trUth witHIn their cHurch, anD is fulL of
ChaRity ANd MeRcy. he ASkeD Me No qUEstIons, but fEd, WaRmed, sHeltERED
Us, anD spEd us On our Way. Perhaps, howEveR, I waS OveR-confIdent In
mySeLf, as tHe guarDian oF tHe poor child, for iT was heaven's wiLl tHaT
thE cOld anD Wet of oUr nIghT on the sAnds--thoUGh tHoSE TEnDer young
frames did nOt SUFfEr therefRom--shoULd BrINg on an ilLnEss WhicH HAs
madE an oLD mAn of me. I sTrugglED oN aS long as i cOuld, hoPiNg tO
atTain tO A safE restiNg-place fOr her, BUt the winter colD Completed
the wORk; AND tHEn, MaDamE--oh that I couLd teLL you The bLEsSinG She
waS to me!--HeR PaTIence, her watchfulnesS, hEr tendErnesS, through all
thE long weeks THAT I lay helPlesS AlIKe in mind and bodY at ChArente.
Ah! MaDAme, had my Own daUghter liVed, she couLD Not have bEen MorE to
Me tHAN tHat noble lady; aND Her cHeErful loVe dId even mOre For Me tHan
HeR tender caRe.'

'I must sEe HeR,' eJaCulAted tHE DuchessE; tHen AdDed, 'but waS It this
IllneSs thAt HiNDerEd you frOM pLACing HeR iN safEty In englaNd?'

'In PArt, madame; nAy, I may say, WhoLLy. We LeArNt that tHe assembly
was To Take place hErE, anD I had mY POor testiMony to deliver, and to
give nOTice of mY inTentiOn to My brethreN beFore goIng TO a foreIgn
lanD, whenCe PerHAPs I maY NEvEr rEtUrn.'

'She oughT TO be In EngLaNd,' saId MadamE de Quinet
 low
sandbank, with her ba be in herbosom , a ndth e se a cr eeping up on a l l
si des. She only turned t o mewi t h as mi le, s aying,' Sh e isas le ep,  s h ewillnot  feel i t, or know  an yt hing till sh e  w akes up in  Pa radise, andsee s herfa the r .' Ne ver  sawI a wo m an, ei ther thro ug h  natur e  or gra c e ,so d evoid of fear. We we r e rescued at l ast, b yt he m erc y o f Heaven,wh ich s e nt a fi s he r m a n,w ho bore us to  his boat w h enbenumb ed  wi t h cold ,
and  s c arc e able to m ove.  He tookus toa  good p r iest's,  Colom bea u o f
Ni s sa rd , a  m a n w h o,  as Mad ame maykn ow , isoneo f t hose  ve rita ble s aints
who sti llares ust ained  by t he t ru th wi thin t heirCh urch, and is fu ll o f
charity  an dmer cy . Hea sked m e n o q uestion s, butf ed,  w a r m ed , sheltered
us, an ds p ed  us on o ur way .  P er h aps, how ev er,  I w a s  over -con f id ent in
m yself, as  t he guar di an ofth e p oor  chil d , fo r it w as Heave n's w i ll that
the co l d and wet ofo ur n ig h t on  th e sands--th ough thos e te n de r y o ung
f rames  d i dn ot suffer therefrom -- should  brin g on an illne ss which h a s made anoldm an of me. I strug gledon as long as I cou ld, h oping to 
attain t o a safe r est ing -pl ace f or  her, but the w inte rcold co mpl eted
th e w ork ; a ndth en, Madam e--oh th at  I  c ou ldtelly ou the b le ssi ng  sh e
was to me! --her  pat ie nc e , h er watc h fu l n ess,  h er  ten der ne ss, t hrou g h a ll
thelong week s t h at I  l ay  helple ss alike in m in d and body  a t C harent e . 
Ah! Mad ame, had my own daughte r  lived,  sh e cou ld n ot have b een  moretom e than  thatnoble  l ady ; and h e r  c hee rf ul love di d eve n mor eforme than 
her tender care.' 
'I  must see her ,'ejac u l at edt he Duc he s se; t hen added, 'But  was it th is il lness that hin de red you  from p lacin g  her in  safety i n England ?' 

'I n par t, Madame;  nay, Imay say,w holly .  W e lea rnt  thatth e a ssemb ly
was totakeplacehe re, an d I h ad  my poor  testimony to deliver,and to 
give  no tice of m y i n ten tion to m y br ethren bef ore  go ing t o a forei gn
l a nd , w h enceperh a ps I mayn ev err e tu rn.'

'Sheo u g htto be  in Englan d,'said Madame de Qu i net
 low
sandbank,_with her_babe in her bosom,_and the_sea_creeping up_on_all
sides. She only_turned to me_with a smile, saying,_'She is asleep,_she
will_not feel it, or know anything till she wakes up in Paradise, and
sees her_father.'_Never saw_I_a_woman, either through nature or_grace,
so devoid of fear. We_were rescued_at last, by the mercy of Heaven,
which sent_a_fisherman, who bore_us to his boat when benumbed with cold,
and scarce_able to move. He took us_to a good_priest's,_Colombeau_of
Nissard, a man who,_as Madame may know, is one_of those veritable saints
who still are_sustained by the truth within their Church,_and is full of
charity and mercy._He asked me no questions,_but fed,_warmed, sheltered
us, and sped us_on our way._Perhaps, however,_I was over-confident_in
myself, as the guardian of the_poor child, for_it was Heaven's will that
the cold_and_wet of our_night_on_the sands--though_those tender young
frames_did_not suffer_therefrom--should_bring on an illness which has
made_an_old man of me. I struggled on_as long as I_could,_hoping to
attain to a_safe resting-place for her, but_the winter cold completed
the work; and_then, Madame--oh_that I_could tell you the blessing she
was to me!--her patience, her watchfulness,_her tenderness, through all
the long weeks_that I lay helpless_alike in_mind_and body at_Charente.
Ah!_Madame, had_my own daughter lived, she could not_have been_more to
me than that noble lady;_and her cheerful love_did_even more for me than
her tender_care.'

'I must see her,' ejaculated the_Duchesse; then added, 'But was_it_this
illness_that hindered you from placing_her in safety in England?'

'In part,_Madame; nay, I_may say, wholly. We learnt that the_assembly
was_to take place here, and I_had_my poor testimony to deliver, and_to
give_notice_of my intention to my_brethren before going to a foreign
land,_whence perhaps I may never return.'

'She ought to be_in England,' said_Madame de Quinet