hollow, his face tanned, weather-beaten, and scored with deep lines; and in his eyes, which seemed to have doubled in size, there was a weary patient look which Jeanne had never seen there before.

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You are not well yourself, monsieur," she said gently.

"There is nothing the matter with me; I am by no means as ill as I look. But one does not go through such a march as that last one of ours without bearing some traces of it afterward. It has killed many of us, and turned many more into old men. And I personally have had a great deal of trouble and unhappiness lately; my poor regiment all but annihilated-half my friends killed, or dead of fatigue and exposuredisaster following disaster-our miserable retreat into Switzerland-and, to crown all, this illness of Léon's. That is the worst thing that has happened to me yet. All through our misfortunes my one consolation has been that he was still well and unhurt, and my one hope was that I should be able to restore him to you safe and sound at the end of the war. But it was not to be."

There was an odd, pathetic break in the man's voice which both touched and surprised Jeanne, and made her in voluntarily draw nearer to him. "Dear M. de Saint-Luc," she said, "I know you have been all that is good and kind to Léon, and I never can thank you enough for all that you have done for him; but neither you nor any one else could have kept him from catching a fever."

No. All we can do now is to pray for him."

"You do sometimes pray, then, now?"

"Ma foi, yes," answered Saint-Luc, with a faint smile. "I have looked on at so many horrors and so much suffering of late that I have come to see that there must be another life after this. They tell me that that is not a logical conclusion; but if it be a true one, I can afford to do without the logic. You told me once that you would pray for me; and sometimes I have fancied that your prayers were bearing some fruit. But 1 must not talk of myself any more. I will take you at once to see Léon; but you must eat and rest before you can possibly be fit to begin nursing him."

And without further preface SaintLuc led the way into the small room where poor Léon lay, wasted to a shadow of his former self by privation and illness, and muttering incoherently as he tossed to and fro in the delirium of the fever.

By the bedside was seated a whitecapped Sister of Charity, whom Jeanne could not at first help regarding with a slight twinge of jealousy, but to whose presence she became quite reconciled when Saint-Luc spoke of her in terms of the deepest gratitude.

"But for the good Sister there," said he, "I do not know whether we should have kept our patient alive till now. You and I, mademoiselle, are willing to do our best; but neither of us, I suppose, knows much more of the art of nursing the sick than we do of the study of medicine, and if we were left to ourselves we should be making mistakes every hour."

Jeanne saw that her first impulse, which had been to dispense with this stranger's services, and to undertake the whole care of her brother herself, had been guessed; and saw also that it had been a foolish one. Before twenty-four hours were over she had fully recognized her own lack of skill, and was thankful enough to have an experienced person at hand to give her directions.

For many days Léon hovered between life and death. Long after the fever had left him the doctors shook their heads over his case, and would not say that they considered him out of danger; and though Jeanne exhausted herself in efforts to get a plain answer out of these grave gentlemen, it is needless to say that she did not succeed. The young man's whole system had received a shock, it appeared; and there were complications-not necessarily dangerous ones--still such as must give cause for some anxiety-etc., etc. But in the end the complications disappeared, or were conquered; and then it remained only to get up the invalid's strength.

And so, in the early spring days, when the buds of the chestnut-trees were beginning to show tufts of green, and the snow was melting off the lower mountains, and shadows of detached clouds sailed over the ruffled blue surface of the lake, a party of four persons

was to be seen, nearly every day, getting into the carriage which was waiting for them at the door of the Hôtel de l'Ecu. First a tall emaciated young man would be assisted down the steps and into the carriage by his three companions, who then proceeded to skirmish round him, placing pillows under his head, covering him up to the nose with rugs, and carrying out their several plans for his comfort without any regard whatever to the feeble protestations which he apparently raised from time to time. Having arranged matters to their satisfaction, two ladies, an elderly and a young one, would take their places respectively beside and opposite to the invalid, while the fourth person, a bronzed, grizzleheaded gentleman, would scramble up on to the box. Then the heavy vehicle would move away at a slow jog-trot, followed by the eyes of the neighbors, who had soon grown to know the strangers well by sight, and to feel a sympathetic interest in their doings.

The driver had very little trouble, at first, with these quiet, accommodating people, who allowed themselves to be guided entirely by his wishes with regard to the question of destination, and were driven out, day after day, along the most level roads, without raising any protest against the monotony of their routes. But as the weather grew warmer, and the sick gentleman stronger, they became restive, and insisted upon being taken to higher ground-to the slopes of the Grand Salève, or to the hills on the northern side of the lake, whence they could get a peep of the chain of Mont Blanc; and if, in the course of their drive, they espied a likely spot in one of the sunny meadows that lay on either side of the way, they would not unfrequently call a halt, and carrying off the rugs and carriage-cushions, would improvise out of their materials a couch for their charge, would group themselves around him, and so linger on by the hour together, quite forgetful of the patient coachman and horses who were waiting their good pleasure by the road

side.

At such times as these Miss Barrington commonly rose, after a few minutes, leaving Léon enthroned between SaintLuc and Jeanne, and wandered away by herself. Poor Miss Barrington had been

growing more and more uneasy in her mind ever since the first days of her sojourn in Geneva. She began to wish most heartily that she had not interfered with the course of Jeanne's destiny, and to dread the consequences of her rash

She consoled herself a little by thinking that, when all was said and done, Jeanne was in love with Barrington, and not with Saint-Luc. "But, dear me !" she would often sigh, when she was thinking matters over in the seclusion of her own room, "how is it possible that she can have made such a mistake! Harry is a very good fellow in his way; but he is no more to be compared with this M. de Saint-Luc than a dickey-bird is with an eagle. And the worst of it is that the man simply adores her-it is easy to see that. Harry will never adore anybody. He will break Jeanne's heart, I daresay, before he has done with her; and, in the mean time, she will have broken the heart of the other lover. A pretty mess we have made of it all between us !"

Saint-Luc had achieved a facile conquest of Miss Barrington. His handsome face and his subdued, grave manners made the more impression upon her because her nephew's description of the Vicomte had led her to fancy him a very different person. She had expected to meet a smirking, gesticulating little Frenchman, with a waxed mustache, who would be always laying his hand on his heart, and ogling and flirting, and getting in everybody's way; and the actual man was so very unlike this imaginary presentment of him that she would have been predisposed in his favor, even if his devotion to Jeanne, his watchful care of Léon, and his courtesy toward herself had not quite won her heart. Encountering one another constantly by Léon's bedside, and discussing his chances of recovery together, at other times, more freely than they could do when Jeanne was present, these two became fast friends. SaintLuc's English vocabulary was somewhat limited, and not adapted for indiscriminate use-being composed chiefly of pithy expressions learned from AngloParisian grooms and jockeys in days gone by-but Miss Barrington brushed up her French, and before long she and Saint-Luc were upon a footing of perfect

mutual comprehension and esteem. And now Miss Barrington's conscience troubled her sorely in that she was playing a traitor's part toward this kind and unsuspecting gentleman; for almost every post brought her letters from Harry, asking endless questions about Saint-Luc and his relations toward Jeanne-questions which she had promised to answer, and did answerfeeling, all the time, that she was no better than a spy in a friendly camp. And so, as the days went on, she became more and more taciturn, and would often, as has been said, wander away from the three younger people, by whom her absence was scarcely noticed.

Nor was Miss Barrington the only firm friend whom Saint-Luc earned for himself during the long weeks of Léon's illness and convalescence. If Jeanne's heart had been hard enough to hold out against the spectacle of this stalwart soldier converted into a sick nurse, and watching unweariedly, night and day, in her brother's room-if she could have withstood his gentleness, his thought for others, and his determination neither to give up hope himself, nor to let those about him do so, her obduracy must have been vanquished when Léon grew strong enough to relate some of his war experiences, and to talk about his dear colonel, of whose courage and modesty and kindness he was never tired of giving instances. The young fellow was in a very weak state, and he could not so much as mention Saint-Luc's name without the tears rising into his eyes. Jeanne's last lingering remnant of prejudice against her fiancé died away as she listened. To her he was no longer the same person who had sickened her very soul with flattery, and whom she had almost insulted, by way of return, in old Algerian days. That Saint-Luc -that card-playing, lady-killing, unmanly Parisian-was dead-or rather, had never existed; and here, in his place, was a brave soldier, a perfect gentleman, a delightful companion, of whose friendship any one might be proud.

And certainly it was true that the war had in many respects changed Saint-Luc for the better. Some superficial foppishness, a certain half-veiled insolence of manner, had been purged from him by the terrible realities amid which he had

lived for six months. He was more sure of himself and less sensitive than of yore. But what set him at his ease more than anything else was his speedy discovery that he need no longer fear mistrust or misjudgment from Jeanne. Meeting daily in Léon's bedroom, comparing notes as to his treatment, discussing plans for his removal from Geneva, and talking over the various phases of the crisis he had just passed through, he and she drew imperceptibly nearer to one another, and reached at last a degree of intimacy from which neither of them could have retreated, even if so minded. But neither in the sick-room, nor in the course of any of the drives and walks which they took together by the shores of the lake, was any reference made to the engagement which still bound them both. That question appeared to be, by common consent, left in abeyance. Léon was the connecting link between them; and it was upon Léon almost exclusively that their conversations turned.

But of course this sort of life could not go indefinitely. It was but an entr'acte, at the close of which the personages with whom we are concerned knew that they must resume their several parts in the drama of life; and if two of them were in no great hurry to make a fresh start, the remaining couple were less patiently disposed. Miss Barrington was feverishly anxious to get the distressing scenes which she foresaw over and done with ; and Léon, who was heartily sick of Geneva, and somewhat overrated his returning strength, importuned the doctor every day to sanction his departure for Algiers. To this, however, the doctor would not consent. The journey was too long and fatiguing a one, he said, to be attempted with safety yet awhile; but he agreed that his patient required some change of air and scene, and suggested Montreux, at the other end of the lake, as being, from its sheltered position, better suited to an invalid than Geneva; and Léon was rather taken with the idea. Anything to get away from that hateful town, and from the room in which he had passed so many dismal hours, he said.

To Montreux the whole party accordingly shifted their quarters one mild, sunny March day; and with the change the young Marquis began to recover

health so rapidly that it was evident that he would not be persuaded to loiter much longer in idleness under the shadow of the rocks and crags which tower above this part of the smiling Lac Léman. He began to talk, too, in a vague way, about plans for the future, and to turn his eyes upon Saint-Luc in a questioning manner embarrassing alike to that gentleman and to others.

Whether it were owing to this unpleasant behavior on the part of Léon, or to other not very recondite causes, certain it is that a distinct gloom and disquietude damped the gayety of the quartet after their flitting. Jeanne, in particular, lost her spirits and her appetite, and, at such times as her brother did not require her attendance, either shut herself up in her own room or set off on long rambles, in which Saint-Luc had too much tact to offer to bear her company.

It was on the tenth day of her stay at Montreux that she wandered up the hillside, toward the hour of sunset, to that ugly, but finely-situated, Protestant church which is known to thousands of

Englishmen and women. It was a beautiful, warm, still evening. The sun was sinking in a blaze of fiery and golden clouds behind the low purple rim of the Jura Mountains; the snows of the Dent du Midi, and of the higher peaks on the Savoy side of the lake, were flushed with rosy light; the motionless sheet of water which bathed their base, and the villages reflected in its glassy surface, seemed not less serenely lifeless than they; and Jeanne, leaning over the stone parapet of the churchyard, and looking down upon the peaceful picture beneath her, remembered how, on just such an evening as this, she had stood with Barrington on the ramparts at Fort Napoléon, and had seen, to her dismay, M. de Saint-Luc gallop past on his tired horse, and vanish into the twilight shades. The scene came back to her so vividly, and Saint-Luc's image was so present to her mind, that she was scarcely startled when the man himself came suddenly into view, and slowly approaching her, sat down on the wall by her side. She was not startled; but her heart beat a little more quickly, for she felt intuitively that he had not followed her for nothing, and that the interview

which she had been dreading for some days past was now about to begin. "Is it not a lovely evening?" she said, without turning round.

"Yes. Léon wanted to come out with me, but I would not let him. Sunset is always a dangerous time, and he must beware of chills."

"He is much stronger, though, this last week; don't you think so?"

66

that

At

"So much stronger, mademoiselle," answered Saint-Luc, smiling, Montreux has very nearly seen the last of him, I suspect. He is homesick, and he is beginning to feel the want of some occupation again--and no wonder. Man is born to labor, and is never quite hopelessly unhappy except when he is idle. That is one of the things I have learned in the last few months. I, who am fitted for nothing but soldiering, mean to devote the remainder of my days to that trade-supposing, that is to say, that I can induce our future rulers to give me some rank in the army. present I hardly know what I am—a colonel without a regiment, or a sword, or a uniform. Whether the coming Government will confirm M. Gambetta's officers in their grades is an open question. We shall cut a queer figure, some of us, if we are so far distinguished; but I, for one, intend to urge my claims, such as they are; and in these cases it is half the battle to be upon the spot. So I start for Versailles to-morrow morning; and it was to bid you goodby. mademoiselle, that I followed on your track this evening-which must be my excuse for having intruded upon you.

This was not at all what Jeanne had expected. She was troubled and taken by surprise, and did not in the least know how much might be intended to be implied in Saint-Luc's "Good-by."

that

To-morrow?" she exclaimed; is very short notice. Why did you not say anything about your plans before? Why must you leave us so soon?"

64

Because you do not want me any longer," replied Saint-Luc gently. "Léon is in a fair way toward complete recovery, and will soon be able to take charge of you, instead of being taken charge of. Those who, as I do, hope to be missed a little should be careful not to outstay their welcome. Moreover,

I

"Mademoiselle, there is one thing that must be said before we part. thought at first that I would go away without alluding to the subject, and would leave Léon to explain everything to you; but now I feel that I would rather tell you what there is to be told myself. You understand, of course, that what I am speaking of is the project of a marriage between us which once existed, but which I, for my part, renounced all idea of some months back.

It was then that I discovered, quite accidentally, what had been your motive for consenting to marry me-a motive, mademoiselle, most worthy of you, and one of which I have no right to complain, but which, I am happy to tell you, need no longer influence you. I must have been very dense not to have understood from the beginning how matters were, for I remember that almost the first thing you did, when we were left alone together that hot afternoon at ElBiar do you recollect?-was to say something about Léon's so-called debt to me; but I suppose the truth is that I was too anxious to secure what I longed for, upon any terms, to look closely into the way in which it might come to me. I knew that I was nothing to you; but I had always an absurd hope that I should make you love me in the end, and that, somehow or other, things would come right as soon as we were married.'

Saint-Luc paused; and Jeanne said, in a low voice, "I have behaved very badly to you, but it was to save Léon. And I did not know then how good you were. I thought-but it does not matter what I thought. I am ashamed of it now-I am ashamed of myself altogether."

"Dear mademoiselle, you have no reason to be so. You told me the truth

quite plainly, only I was too dull to understand what you meant; and if excuses are to be made by one of us to the other, it is assuredly not from you that they should come. I have done mischief enough already by my selfishness. and stupidity; but happily it is not irreparable; and you will soon forget the months of misery that you have had to undergo through my fault-soon forget them, I have no doubt."

Saint-Luc broke off, with a half-stifled sigh, and tossed a few pebbles over the parapet, while Jeanne sat silently watching him. After a time he resumed :

66

It was one night last November that I found out the truth. We had been in the saddle all day, moving hither and thither on the outskirts of the forest of Marchenoir, in obedience to the orders that were sent us from time to time, and hearing the cannon always in the distance, but knowing nothing of what was going on, or whether our side was beaten or victorious. When the darkness came on, we had to bivouac as best we could, without shelter or fires-for the Prussians might have been all round us for anything we could tell-and as it was bitterly cold, and a few flakes of snow were falling, neither Léon nor I attempted to go to sleep. We sat up and tried to keep ourselves warm, and talked about a great may things and peopleabout you, among the rest. I suppose we were both in a desponding mood, as half-frozen and half-starved men very generally are; and I remember that I spoke more openly than usual of the unhappiness and hopelessness of my life, and said a great deal which I need not repeat; to which Léon rejoined at length that he had more reason to feel wretched than I had, because his conscience would let him have no peace when he thought of what he had brought upon you. And so, by degrees, it all came out. as if my eyes had been suddenly opened. Perhaps you may think that, as I knew beforehand that you did not care for me, what he said need not have startled me so much, and that it came to nearly the same thing whether you married me because your friends wished it, or because you wanted to relieve your brother of a debt. But there is a difference; and even a very great one, to my mind. the difference, in fact, between a volun

It was

Ali