ereafter
which awaits us. No, I am not in the confessional. But it is my duty,
is it not, to open your eyes to your future life here on earth? You
will pardon an old man, will you not, for importunity which has your own
happiness for its object?"

"There is no more happiness for me, monsieur. I shall soon be, as you
say, in your province; but it will be for ever."

"Nay, madame. You will not die of this pain which lies heavy upon you,
and can be read in your face. If you had been destined to die of it, you
would not be here at Saint-Lange. A definite regret is not so deadly
as hope deferred. I have known others pass through more intolerable and
more awful anguish, and yet they live."

The Marquise looked incredulous.

"Madame, I know a man whose affliction was so sore that your trouble
would seem to you to be light compared with his."

Perhaps the long solitary hours had begun to hang heavily; perhaps in
the recesses of the Marquise's mind lay the thought that here was a
friendly heart to whom she might be able to pour out her troubles.
However, it was, she gave the cure a questioning glance which could not
be mistaken.

"Madame," he continued, "the man of whom I tell you had but three
children left of a once large family circle. He lost his parents, his
daughter, and his wife, whom he dearly loved. He was left alone at last
on the little farm where he had lived so happily for so long. His three
sons were in the army, and each of the lads had risen in proportion to
his time of service. During the Hundred Days, the oldest went into
the Guard with a colonel's commission; the second was a major in the
artillery; the youngest a major in a regiment of dragoons. Madame, those
three boys loved their father as much as he loved them. If you but knew
how careless young fellows grow of home ties when they are carried
away by the current of their own lives, you would realize from this one
little thing how warmly they loved the lonely old father, who only lived
in and for them--never a week passed without a letter from one of the
boys. But then he on his side had never been weakly indulgent, to lessen
their respect for him; nor unjustly severe, to thwart their affection;
or apt to grudge sacrifices, the thing that estranges children's hearts.
He had been more than a father; he had been a brother to them, and their
friend.

"At last he went to Paris to bid them good-bye before they set out for
Belgium; he wished to see that