IFroat THE FRENCH 0K SAINT-JUIRS.

OU are a dead man!” said

the doctor, looking intently at Anatole.

Anatole staggered.

He had come guaily to pass the evening with his old {fricnd, Dr. Bardais, the illustrious sazvant wlhosc works on venomous substances arc known all over the world, whosce nobility of hcart and almost paternal goodness Anatole had learned to know better than any other living soul ; and now, without the least hesitation or preparation, he heard this tcerrible prognostication from thosce authoritative lips !

“ Unhappy child, what have you done?” continucd the doctor.

“ Nothing that T know of,” stammercd Anatole, greatly agitated.

“Tax your mecmory, tell me what you have eaten or drunk—what you have inhaled 2"

ISssuce

The last word was a ray of Tight to Ana- tole. That very morning he had recerved 4 letter from onc of his friends who was travelling in India ;in the letter was a flower plucked on a bank of the Ganges by the (raveller—a strangely-formed red flower, the perfume of which—he now recalled the fact vividly—had appeared to him to bc stngularly penetrative. He hastily drew forth his pocket-book and produced the letter with its contents and handed them to the savant.

• No doubt is possible ' cried the doctor ;

“it is the Pvranmcnensts ITndica ! the deadly flower, the flower of blood ! “Then,—yvou—really think 2V

o \las !

I am sure of it."

“ But—it 1s impossible '—I am only hve- and-twenty years of age, and feel full of lifc and hecalth |——"

“ At what hour did you open that fatal letter ? 7

“This morning, at nine o’clock.”

“Weell—to-morrow morning, at the saimg hour, at the saiance minute, in full health, as you say, you will feel a pain in your heart— and all will be over.”