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her side of the road, for she was afraid of every one, but the old woman rose and went to her. Nanette would have run away, but the woman took her by the hand, spoke gently to her, and told her not to be frightened, for she would do her no harm. Nanette looked at her, felt reassured by her kind expression of countenance, and told her that she had run away from the town because they wanted to beat her.

"It is your mother who wanted to beat you," said Dame Lapie; "well never mind, we will settle that; come, we will go and ask her to forgive you, and then she will not beat you;" saying this, she made a movement as if wishing to lead her back to the town. Nanette, terrified, began to scream and struggle, saying that it was not her mother, and that she would not return to the town. "Well, then, we will not go, you shall come with us," but Nanette still struggled to withdraw her hand; Dame Lapie let it go, and as Nanette went on, contented herself with following and talking to her. "Who will give you anything to eat to-day?" she demanded. Nanette, crying, replied, "I don't know." "Where will you sleep to-night?" asked Dame Lapie. "I don't know," said Nanette, still crying. "Come with me," continued Dame Lapie, "I promise you we will not return to the town." "Come with us," said the little boy, who had also followed her, and Nanette at last suffered herself to be persuaded. Dame Lapie led her back to the foot of the tree, gave her a piece of black bread and an apple, and while eating it, for she was beginning to feel hungry, she recovered her calmness a little.

Dame Lapie was an old woman to whom the people of the village intrusted their children, whilst they went to work in the fields. She had always five or six, whom she went for in the morning, and took home again at night. The little boy who had spoken to Nanette, and whose name was Jeannot, was one of those she had taken care of in this way. His parents dying whilst he was very young, Dame Lapie would not abandon him, but not being able to support him herself, she sent him to beg. She herself also went, and sat by the road-side, with the little children around her, and asked alms of the passers by; and the parents of the children were either ignorant of this, or did not trouble themselves about it, especially as Dame Lapie always shared with the little ones whatever she obtained.

Jeannot seeing Dame Lapie receiving children every day, imagined that all who had no homes ought to go to her; and therefore he had sought to lead Nanette to her; and the dame, meeting with a little girl neatly clad, wandering about alone, without knowing where she went, was persuaded, notwithstanding Nanette's assertions that she had run away from her mother, to whom she should be rendering a service by restoring her. She intended, therefore, as soon as she had learned from Nanette who were her parents, to go and see them, promising to restore their daughter, on condition that they would not beat her, for Dame Lapie could not bear the idea of having children ill treated, or even annoyed. Meanwhile, when she returned at night to the village, she made Nanette accompany her, and gave her two of the children to lead; this amused Nanette, but she was not quite so much diverted, when at night the dame had nothing to give her for supper but the same kind of black bread which she had had for dinner, and this too without the apple. Neither did she feel much inclined to sleep with Dame Lapie, whose bed was very disagreeable; still it was necessary, and she slept very soundly after all. Jeannot, as usual, slept upon some straw in a corner of the hut.

During the night, Dame Lapie was seized with so violent an attack of rheumatism that she could not move a limb; and, as she was unable to go to the town, she told Nanette that she must return home to her mother. Nanette again began to cry, saying that her mother did not live in the town, that her good friend was dead, and that there remained no one but of her good friend's sister, and she wanted to beat her; she did not allude to the Ch?teau, for she was still more afraid of Dubois than of the shopkeeper. Dame Lapie asked where her mother was, but Nanette scarcely remembered the name of her native village; everything she said on the subject was so confused, and she cried so much, that the old woman could make nothing out, and resolved to let the matter rest for the present. On several occasions, during the following days, she renewed her questions, but always with the same result; and, too ill to insist much on the matter, she determined, as soon as she was better, to go to the town and make inquiries herself.

Nanette, meanwhile, rendered her a thousand little services; she was gentle and attentive, and delighted in giving pleasure. The constant attention required by Mademoiselle Gerard had rendered her alive to the wants of sick people. She also took care of the little children, who were always brought to Dame Lapie's, and, accompanied by Jeannot, went out with them upon the road. Jeannot did all he could to cheer her; but she was sad. She remembered the good dinners she had with Mademoiselle Gerard, and the black bread became distasteful to her; nevertheless, there was nothing else for her, and not always enough even of that. On one occasion, she was obliged to go to bed supperless, and passed a part of the night in crying; but so as not to be heard by Dame Lapie, because, whenever the dame saw her crying from hunger, she scolded her, and asked her why she did not go and beg like Jeannot.

The winter had passed; the spring was very wet; and when it rained, the water penetrated into Dame Lapie's hut, which was somewhat below the level of the street. This rendered it very unhealthy. It was also unhealthy for Nanette to sleep with this old woman, who was an invalid. Nanette was naturally of a delicate constitution, and the misery in which her infancy had been passed left her in a state of but very moderate health at the time she was taken by Madame de Vesac. Under the care of Mademoiselle Gerard, she recovered her strength, but not sufficiently to enable her to bear the present relapse into misery. If Jeannot was able to endure the same inconveniences, it was because he was of a strong, lively, and active temperament, which prevented him from yielding to depression; whereas Nanette, mild, quiet, and even a little inclined to indolence, gave way to discouragement and sadness--a thing which always increases our troubles. Jeannot besides was a favourite with the neighbours; every one caressed him, and gave him something; but they had been greatly displeased by the arrival of Nanette, and thought it very wrong of Dame Lapie to take charge of a child of whom she knew nothing, and who, they said, was only an additional beggar in the village; so that not unfrequently, when Nanette went into the streets, she heard the women and children crying out against her. Under the combined influence of grief, unwholesome food, and want of cleanliness, Nanette soon fell ill. She was seized with a fever, and in the course of a few days became dreadfully changed. Dame Lapie, who was now able to leave her bed, and attend to the children, told her that, as she could not beg, she must at least go with Jeannot, who would beg for her; and that she would get the more when it was seen that she was so ill. Jeannot, who was much more quick and shrewd than Nanette, led her by the hand, and she suffered him to do so, for she had no longer the strength to resist anything. When they reached a spot where they could be seen by those who passed along the road, she seated herself on a stone, or at the foot of a tree, and Jeannot solicited alms for his little sister who was ill; and, indeed, she looked so ill and so unhappy, that she excited commiseration, and obtained for Jeannot additional contributions.

Meantime, Cecilia carried into execution her determination of writing to Mademoiselle Gerard; but as she, of course, addressed her letter to the Ch?teau, it was received by Dubois, who for some days had no opportunity of forwarding it to the town, and in the interval learned that Mademoiselle Gerard was dead. He was then grieved at having treated her with so much brutality the day before her departure; but as for Nanette, when told that she had run away from the shopkeeper's, and had not since been heard of, he took no further trouble in the matter, quite satisfied in his own mind that she was a thief, and that they were very fortunate to be rid of her. Of all these matters he sent an account to Madame de Vesac; but her husband having recovered and returned to active service, she had just left for Paris, and neither received this letter nor the one sent to her by Mademoiselle Gerard a few days prior to her death, and which, having passed through Paris, had been delayed a considerable time on the way. Madame de Vesac stayed only a few days at the capital, and then set out with her daughter for her country-seat, ignorant of all that had lately happened there. She had made inquiries of Cecilia respecting Mademoiselle Gerard; and Cecilia being unable to give her any information, was obliged to confess her negligence. Her mother severely reprimanded her, though little imagining the misfortunes this negligence had produced.

They were four days on their journey, and while changing horses at the last post but one, Cecilia descended from the carriage, and leaving the yard of the inn, went to breathe the fresh air on the high road. Immediately a little boy came towards her, asking charity for his little sister who was ill, at the same time pointing her out to Cecilia, who, in fact, beheld a little girl seated on the ground, with a dying look, and her head leaning against a stone; at that moment she was sleeping; her clothes were in rags, and so dirty, that their colour could scarcely be distinguished. Cecilia, while looking at her, was seized with pity, and struck by her resemblance to Nanette; but it never occurred to her that it could be Nanette. Just then she was called, and giving the little boy a penny, telling him it was for his sister, she returned to the carriage, her mind filled with the thought of the poor little girl she had just seen; yet she did not dare to speak of her to her mother, fearing that by recalling the memory of Nanette she might revive those reproaches which her conscience told her she deserved. What, then, was her consternation, when, on arriving at the Ch?teau, she was informed of the death of Mademoiselle Gerard, and the disappearance of Nanette. While Dubois was relating these particulars, Madame de Vesac fixed her eyes upon her daughter, who at one moment looked at her with an expression of great anxiety, and at the next cast down her eyes ashamed. As soon as Dubois had left the room, Cecilia, pale and trembling, with clasped hands, and a look of despair, said to her mother, "Oh! mamma, if it was that little girl I saw close to the post-house, who looked as if she were dying." Her mother asked her what grounds she had for such an idea. Cecilia informed her, and, while doing so, wept bitterly; for the more she thought of the subject, the less doubt did she entertain of its being poor little Nanette. "I am sure I recognised her," she continued; "and now I remember that she wore the blue dress I gave her. It was all torn, and I could scarcely tell the colour; but it was the same, I am sure. Poor little Nanette!" And with this, she redoubled her tears. She entreated that some one might be sent immediately to the inn, to make inquiries; but it was then too late in the day, and she dreaded lest the delay of a few hours should render Nanette so much worse as to be past recovery. Her agitation increased every moment. Madame de Vesac gave orders that the following morning, as soon as it was light, some one should go to the post-house, to ascertain if the people knew anything of the little girl who was begging at the door on the previous day. Cecilia passed a sleepless night, and rose the next morning before daybreak; and she was awaiting the return of the messenger even before he had started. He did return at last, but without any information. Nanette had never before been at the inn, and the people had not noticed her, and were at a loss to understand the object of all these inquiries. Cecilia was in hopes she would return there during the day, and a messenger was again sent to inquire; but Nanette did not make her appearance, for the post-house was situated at a considerable distance from the village in which Dame Lapie lived; and, in her feeble and suffering condition, the walk had so much exhausted her that she found it impossible to return. "Oh, mamma," exclaimed Cecilia, "perhaps she is dead." At that moment she felt all the anguish of the most dreadful remorse; her agitation almost threw her into a fever. Inquiries were made in the town; and the shopkeeper's wife stated that Nanette had run away, and no one knew what had become of her. The neighbours were also applied to; and they, disliking the sister-in-law of Mademoiselle Gerard, and having heard of the will, said, that to avoid paying the six hundred francs to Nanette, she was quite capable of forcing her, by her ill treatment, to run away, and that perhaps even she had turned her out of doors. To this were added conjectures and rumours, some declaring that a little girl had been met one night in the fields, almost perished with cold; others saying that one had been found on the high road, nearly starved to death; but when questioned further on the point, no one could tell who had seen this little girl, nor what had become of her; for these were only false reports, such as are always circulated in cases of disaster. Cecilia, however, believed them, and they threw her into despair. At this time, Mademoiselle Gerard's letter reached them; it contained a complete justification of Nanette, whom Dubois persisted in regarding as a thief; it also proved that, if Cecilia had written immediately on the receipt of her first letter, Nanette would not have been lost. This redoubled Cecilia's distress. To complete it, there arrived another letter, bearing the post-mark of the village in which Nanette's mother lived. It was written by the clergyman, at the poor woman's request. In this letter, she said that they had several times heard--but not until it was too late,--that Madame de Vesac had passed by. This had very much grieved her, as she would have been glad to have seen her daughter for a moment; but she was told that Nanette was not with them, and feeling extremely uneasy, she entreated Mademoiselle Cecilia--to whom the letter was addressed--to send her some intelligence of her child. The clergyman concluded by saying: "God will bless you, my dear young lady, because you do not abandon the poor." This letter pierced Cecilia to the heart. She grew thin with grief and anxiety; every time the door opened, she fancied there was some news of Nanette. Her eyes were constantly directed towards the avenue, as if she expected to see her coming; and at night she woke up with a start at the slightest noise, as if it announced her return. At last her mother resolved that they would themselves make inquiries in all the neighbouring villages, and speak to all the clergymen, although still fearing that they were too late. They therefore set out one afternoon, and as they approached a village, but a short distance from the town, Cecilia, who was anxiously looking in every direction, uttered a cry, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma, that's her! there she is! I see her! I see the same little boy!" and she caught hold of the coachman's coat, to make him stop the quicker, and darting out of the carriage, rushed towards Nanette, who was lying on the ground, with her head leaning against a tree, seeming scarcely able to breathe. Cecilia threw herself on the ground by her side, spoke to her, raised her up, and kissed her. Nanette recognised her, and began to weep; Cecilia wept also, and taking her upon her knees, she caressed her, called her her dear Nanette, her poor little Nanette. The child looked at her with astonishment, while a faint flush animated her cheeks. Madame de Vesac soon reached the spot. Cecilia wanted to have Nanette put instantly into the carriage, and taken home; but Madame de Vesac questioned Jeannot, who stood staring in the utmost astonishment, utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of what he saw. While Cecilia was arranging Nanette in the carriage, Madame de Vesac, conducted by Jeannot, went to Dame Lapie's cottage. The old woman was sitting at her door, still unable to walk, and related all she knew about the child. Madame de Vesac gave her some money, and returned to Cecilia, who was dying with impatience to see Nanette home, and in a comfortable bed. She got there at last. Cecilia nursed her with the greatest care, and for a whole week never left her bedside, frequently rising in the night to ascertain how she was. At last the surgeon pronounced her out of danger; but it was long before she was restored to health, and still longer before she recovered from the sort of stupidity into which she had been thrown by such a series of misfortunes and suffering. When quite well, Cecilia was desirous of resuming her education with more regularity than formerly; but this education had now become still more difficult than at first, and Cecilia could no longer assume her former authority; for, whenever she was going to scold Nanette, she remembered how much she had suffered through her negligence, and dared not say a word. She felt that to have the right of doing to others all the good we wish, and of ordering what may be useful to them, we must never have done them any injury. She therefore sent Nanette to school, and economized her allowance, in order to be able afterwards to apprentice her to a business. The brother of Mademoiselle Gerard was made to refund the six hundred francs; but Cecilia desired that the sum might be kept for a marriage portion for Nanette, when she was grown up. Madame de Vesac gave Jeannot a suit of clothes; and Dame Lapie had permission to send every week to the ch?teau for vegetables. Madame de Vesac spent not only this summer, but the winter also, and the following summer, in the country; so that Nanette had time to learn to read, and make some progress in writing. This was a source of great joy to Cecilia, who, for some time, feared that her mind was totally stupified. In conversing on the subject with her mother, after she had been relieved of all anxiety in regard to it, Madame de Vesac said to her: "We never know what injury we may do when we confer favours heedlessly and solely for our own pleasure, and without being willing to give ourselves any trouble. This is not the way to do good. Those whom you neglect, after having led them to expect assistance, find, when you have abandoned them, that they had calculated upon you, and are now without resource; so that you have done them more harm than if you had never aided them."

THREE CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE OF NADIR.

THE ROSE.

In the month of Flowers, in Farsistan, the Land of Roses, three youths inhaled the perfumed air of the morning, as they sported in the flower-covered fields, and amid the leaves, sparkling with dew. Pleasure directed their steps towards the depths of a dark grove, into which the heat of the first beams of day had not yet penetrated. A celestial fragrance mingled with the first exhalations of the verdure. One single sunbeam had pierced the thick foliage, as if to point out, with its golden finger, a Rose, the loveliest of roses. The dew-drops bathed it as they passed, or crept, for its refreshment, into its bosom, coloured with transparent tints of light and shade; and the zephyr of the grove seemed to have no other care than to balance it on its delicate stem. Proudly, but timidly, did it raise its head, expanding like the countenance of a young girl, whose lips scarce dare to smile, while already happiness is beaming in her eyes.

"Oh! lovely flower," said Zul?iman, "I will carry thee to Schiraz; this day shalt thou adorn the feast; the poets of Persia shall sing of thy perfume and thy beauty;" and already was his hand stretched forth to pluck the Rose.

"Stop!" cried Massour, "why thus cut short the bright hours of its life? Think, Zul?iman, think how, after shining for a few brief moments in the crown of a guest, or in the garland destined to adorn the vases of the feast, consumed by the burning breath of men, and sinking beneath the vapour of their cups, it will droop that head now so full of vigour, and let fall, one after the other, its fading petals, until at night, trodden under foot, it will scarcely leave upon the ground a faint trace of its existence."

"What matters it," continued the impetuous Zul?iman, "whether it perish amid the splendours of a court, or upon its slender stem? A single day is the term of its existence, and that day will at least have been a glorious one. Poor flower! I will not suffer thee thus to lavish in forgetfulness thy fragrant odour and soft beauty in this secluded spot, where thou art scarce known, even to the nightingale and the zephyr."

"And is it not enough," said Massour, "that it should possess an existence thus fragrant and beautiful, that it should enjoy the thick shade, and inhale the delicious freshness of this grove; here peacefully to bloom away its life, here gently to shed its leaves when, pale but not withered, they fall one by one, as vanish, without pain, blessings that have been enjoyed, as glide away the last days of a happy life, softly coloured by remembrance?"

"Wretched happiness," said Zul?iman; "noble flower, thou wilt not accept it! I see thee swell and unfold thy leaves, proud with the thought of shining in the world." And a second time he was about to pluck the flower.

"Stop!" cried Nadir, in his turn seizing the arm of Zul?iman; then for a moment he was silent, his eyes fixed upon the rose; a painful anxiety tormented his heart: he shuddered at the thought of abandoning to such sudden destruction that flower, so brilliant and so happy, while at the same time he sighed to see it waste, useless and unknown, the treasures of its precious existence. "Stop! Zul?iman!" he continued, "let us not thus rashly precipitate things into the abyss of our wills before examining what may be the destiny marked out for them by the Father of beings."

At this moment, a sage was seen approaching. The world had no secrets from him. He understood the language of the birds, and could divine the thoughts of the flowers. He knew what is still more difficult: how to select the narrow path of duty in the intricate ways of life, and to trace out its precise direction; the only rule capable of sustaining the mind of man, and of guiding his will amidst the uncertainties of desire. The three youths addressed him at once: "Father," said they, "enlighten our doubts, unfold to us the destiny of this Rose."

As the sage was about to reply, warlike sounds were heard. Zul?iman sprang forward, seized his arms, and hurried to range himself beneath the standard of the Sophi. Massour, with a smile, inhaled the perfume of the flower which he fancied he had preserved, and returned to the palace of his father, to enjoy the delights of life.

"My son," said the sage to Nadir, "this is the hour in which thy grandsire has need of thy assistance, that he may warm himself in the rays of the morning sun. Let not an old man lose one of those reviving beams." And Nadir hastened to obey the words of the Sage.

In the evening, his mind still perplexed with the same doubt, Nadir returned to the grove. The sage was there; and there, also, was the Rose. Its perfume was beginning to languish; its full-blown leaves seemed to have exhausted the plenitude of existence, and to be expending their last powers. "One night, at most, will terminate its life," said Nadir: "perhaps the morning zephyr is already commissioned to waft away its remains. Tell me, O father! if, in thus wasting on its stem, it has fulfilled the destiny appointed for it by the Most High, and to which it was called by its own nature."

"This morning, my son," resumed the sage, "it might have cast a look of sadness on the obscure retreat to which Providence had condemned it. It might have inquired of the Most High, wherefore that rich fragrance enclosed within its breast; wherefore the ravishing colours with which it is adorned? but at noon there came a traveller, overpowered by fatigue; his eyes, distressed by the dazzling brilliancy of the day, demanded comfort; his sense of smell sought deliverance from the dust of the road; all his senses required refreshment, all his body called for repose. Attracted by the fragrance of the Rose, he penetrated into its retreat; it delighted his eye, and revived his senses; it remained suspended over his head while he slept, lavishing on him its rich perfume till the evening; and he departed, refreshed, happy, and blessing the Rose whose dying fragrance now rises in thankfulness towards the Most High, for the destiny he had assigned it." Nadir also raised his thoughts to heaven, and blessed the Lord of nature for the destiny of the Rose.

THE TRIBE.

The next day Nadir returned to seek the sage, and thus addressed him:--"Father, man is not like the flower, fixed upon a stem, he can of himself advance towards his destiny; ought he then, like the Rose, to wait until the traveller demands his perfume? Tell me, oh! father, what is the destiny which God has assigned to man; what is the happiness to which it is the will of Heaven that he should aspire?"

"My son," replied the sage, "the virtue as well as the happiness of the plant consists in patience. There, in the retreat in which God has placed it, let it await his will, and if it die without having been made use of, if its salutary properties return with it into the earth, still let it not murmur; for God has seen it, and the Most High rejoices in his own works.

"The animal is destined for action, but in the interest, and under the direction of man. Obedience is his duty, it is the merit which will be accounted to him, the blessing of which he may avail himself. The horse whose submissive ardour obeys with joy the signal of his master, feels neither the whip nor the spur.

"Man, my son, has received the power of voluntary action. Let him not suffer either his deed or his will to perish uselessly, but let him earnestly seek out the portion of labour assigned to him by God in the work of the Universe. Let him submit to it with docility, under the guidance of the Most High, who deigns to make him the instrument of His decrees; and let him accept with resignation the measure of success, which it may be the will of Heaven to bestow."

"Oh! my father," demanded Nadir, "how, amidst this array of human activities, amidst this immense variety of labours which the world spreads out before me, how may I always distinguish the portion of the work to which it is the will of Heaven that I should devote my powers?"

"Always look around and see in what direction thou canst do the most good, without doing any evil.

"Ask of the creatures of God such assistance as they can render thee, without acting in contradiction to the destiny imposed upon them by their Father, and thine.

"Gather the fruit of the vine, but break not its stem to form thy staff. For the stem of the vine, left to its natural destiny, will still for many years offer a grape to the parched lips of the pilgrim. When thou no longer needest the axe, take not its handle to feed the flame of thy hearth, for though no longer useful to thee, the handle of the axe is not the less destined to fulfil a long service.

"Go, my son, be active as the fire that never sleeps, docile as the courser to the impulse of the hand which guides him, resigned as the solitary plant."

Such were the counsels of the sage; and Nadir departed to begin life.

Nadir was beautiful as the moon, when from the blue vault of heaven she silently looks down upon the earth; agile and proud as the stag, at the head of a troop of fawns and young deer; compassionate as a mother to the cries of her child. His words reverberated in the depths of the heart like the cymbal, whose every sound responds to the step of the warrior, burning with impatience to reach his enemy; and when his voice burst forth in song, or when his hand swept the lyre, it seemed as if one were transported to the borders of fountains where the sound melts away in rapture, to the harmonious voices of earth and air.

For three days a terrible lion had spread desolation and terror throughout their neighbourhood: all night its roaring was heard around their dwellings: in the day he pounced silently upon his prey. The timid maiden, gathering wild roots, dreaded to see him spring from behind each bush; the mother dared not leave her child within the hut; and the warrior, who went forth with spear in hand, looked anxiously around, fearing to seek the game which he had wounded in the cavern or the pit, lest he should meet the terrible animal ready to dispute it with him. Nadir arrived; the temper of his scimitar, the vigour of his arm, the courage of his soul triumphed over the lion. The people worshipped him as a god: the heads of the tribe came to him and said, "Thou art stronger than we are: command us; and with us thou shalt be the master of this people."

Nadir reflected: "I can impose wise laws upon this people: but, if they submit to them by force, they will act in opposition to the destiny which God has appointed for man, which is, to act in accordance with his own will." Therefore, before disclosing to them his thoughts, Nadir listened to theirs; and their thoughts, on the lips of Nadir, became a music enchanting to their ears. He did not force them to exchange the spear for the plough, nor the toil of the wandering huntsman for that of the industrious labourer; but he headed their chase, and at their feasts purchased at the price of fatigue and danger: he expatiated, in glowing language, on the luxury of fruits improved by culture, of cakes made from wheaten flour, of the presents conferred by the goat, who gives to man her milk, when he ceases to demand her blood. Clad like them, in the skins of the wild beasts he had slain, he taught the young men to place them on their shoulders with more elegance; and the women were eager to fashion them with grace, in order to give pleasure to the young men. Labour introduced among this people abundance, sociability, and innocent gaiety; and they sang: "Nadir is a gift more precious than a son to his mother; for he renders us happy without having ever caused us pain."

Nevertheless, there were some among them who rebelled against the power which the people had delegated to Nadir. First in this number was a young man named Sibal: he was seized. The chiefs who recognized the superiority of Nadir, and the old men, to whom he had taught the science of counsel, exclaimed, "Let Sibal die, that his death may be a warning to others!"

But Nadir replied: "Has he not received from God a destiny more suited to his nature than that of dying for the benefit of others, like the grain which they grind for food?" He ordered Sibal to be brought into his presence, and said, "Why dost thou seek to reject my laws? Is thy heart not strong enough to bear them?"

"Thy laws, like the honey of the bee," said Sibal, "may be sweet to him who has made them; but I cannot feed upon the honey from another's hive."

"Let him who is also capable of making honey," replied Nadir, "assist those who are occupied in filling the hive. Aid me in giving laws to this people, and govern them with me, if thou art competent; if thou art more competent, govern them in my stead."

Sibal fell prostrate before him. The words of Nadir had sunk deep into his heart, even as the shower which awakens the germs still sleeping in the bosom of the earth, and he said: "Oh, Nadir! I am worthy of something better than the death to which they would have condemned me;" and as the father begets the sons who increase his power, so Nadir taught wisdom to Sibal, and the wisdom of Sibal increased the strength of Nadir; and the life of Sibal was before the eyes of this people an example, which would have been lost by his death: for the voice of each morning raises a hymn to the glory of the sun, but the earth forgets in a few hours the cloud which passes away in storm.

The wonders accomplished by Nadir were related at the Court of the Sophi, on whom this tribe depended; and the Court wished to draw him to itself, as it does everything precious. He went, therefore, to the Court of the Sophi. There he beheld Zul?iman, who had distinguished himself in arms. He had surpassed every warrior in valour, every chief in discipline. The Sophi had just delegated to him the government of a province which he had conquered. "Govern it in peace," he said, "since thou hast gained it by war." But Zul?iman was only fit for subjugating men; a thing which may be done so long as war lasts. The huntsman traces out, according to his pleasure, the enclosure within which he wishes to shut up and pursue the beasts of the forest; but the shepherd leads his flocks to the pastures which they themselves prefer.

Zul?iman did not crush his people by his avarice; he did not subject them to unworthy favourites, neither did he force them to respect a degrading idleness; on the contrary, he required them to adorn their towns with religious edifices; he obliged them to construct, upon the path of the traveller, fountains, shaded by palm-trees; and to send their children to schools, in which they might be well educated. But since, in the means he took to obtain their obedience, he did not consult their character, but his own, they did not adapt their wills to his laws; but as the branch, of which the child forms his bow, when subjected to a curve contrary to its nature, wounds the hand which forces it, or, breaking loose, darts from his grasp; so they, being constrained by force to bend to his laws, obeyed his rule with hatred, or evaded it by stratagem.

"These men," said Zul?iman, "are perverse. I sow amongst them the good seed of virtue, and they return to me the tares of vice."

"Brave Zul?iman," replied Nadir, "men become perverse through hatred of a rule opposed to their inclinations. Think not to conduct them to good by laws at variance with the powers which God has bestowed upon them for its attainment. The will of a tyrant is like a thunderbolt hurled against a rock: the rock turns it off, and it strikes a temple."

One day a slave was labouring with his axe on the gnarled trunk of an oak which he wished to fell. It had already wearied his arm, and he demanded time for repose, but in vain; Zul?iman would not grant it. Then the slave, summoning his remaining strength, raised his axe--but only to let it fall in vengeance on the head of Zul?iman. Nadir hurried to the spot, and found him expiring. Zul?iman said to him: "If I sought to precipitate events, it was only that the short period of life might still leave me time for the accomplishment of great deeds."

"Oh! Zul?iman," replied Nadir, "nothing can be truly great, but that which accords with the destiny traced out for man by the finger of Him who alone is great." But Nadir mourned for Zul?iman: for he had been powerful in action, and only failed by depending too much on obedience.

Nadir also visited the Palace of Massour. He beheld him, like a fruit, nourished by the prodigality of a too fertile soil, by the abundance of the fountains, and the moist freshness of the shade; the purifying breath of heaven, the generous ardour of the sun, have never penetrated its retreat. Swelled with useless juice, insipid and discoloured, it hangs, bearing down by its weight the branch which supports it. Such appeared Massour. Life was to him dull and weary; for he knew not how to restore its vigour. In vain he sought for novelty in his luxuries: the cup of pleasure was filled to the very brim; to pour in more was but to make it overflow, without increasing its contents.

Massour, too, was threatened by misfortune; and he beheld it as we behold a phantom, which chills us with terror, though we know it is but a phantom. His riches no longer gave him joy; yet to preserve these riches, he abandoned, though with tears, to the hatred of a powerful enemy, the friend who had implored his aid.

Then Nadir departed from the Palace of Massour, saying, "God has given activity to man, as he has given the current to the waters, to preserve them from corruption."

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