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A GENTLE COUNSELLOR.
One sombre, misty, winter morning, as Amedee lingered in his bed, his father entered, bringing him a letter that the wife of the concierge had just brought up.

The letter was from Maurice, inviting his friend to dinner that evening at seven o'clock at Foyots, to meet some of his former companions at the Lycee Henri IV.
"Will you excuse me for not dining with you this evening, papa ?" said Amedee, joyfully.

"Maurice Roger entertains us at a restaurant." The young man's gayety left him suddenly when he looked at his father, who had seated himself on the side of the bed.

He had become almost frightful to look at; old before his time, livid of complexion, his eyes bloodshot, the rebellious lock of hair straggling over his right temple.
Nothing was more heartbreaking than his senile smile when he placed his bony trembling hands upon his thighs.