covered with venerable oaks, was inclosed on three sides
by freestone walls, one of which opened in front through a handsome gate
of wrought-iron, fashioned in the style of Louis XV.; the fourth side
was bounded by the little river called the Reissouse, a pretty stream
that takes its rise at Journaud, among the foothills of the Jura, and
flowing gently from south to north, joins the Saone at the bridge of
Fleurville, opposite Pont-de-Vaux, the birthplace of Joubert, who, a
month before the period of which we are writing, was killed at the fatal
battle of Novi.

Beyond the Reissouse, and along its banks, lay, to the right and left
of the Chateau des Noires-Fontaines, the village of Montagnac and
Saint-Just, dominated further on by that of Ceyzeriat. Behind this
latter hamlet stretched the graceful outlines of the hills of the Jura,
above the summits of which could be distinguished the blue crests of the
mountains of Bugey, which seemed to be standing on tiptoe in order to
peer curiously over their younger sisters' shoulder at what was passing
in the valley of the Ain.

It was in full view of this ravishing landscape that Sir John awoke. For
the first time in his life, perhaps, the morose and taciturn Englishman
smiled at nature. He fancied himself in one of those beautiful valleys
of Thessaly celebrated by Virgil, beside the sweet slopes of Lignon sung
by Urfe, whose birthplace, in spite of what the biographers say,
was falling into ruins not three miles from the Chateau des
Noires-Fontaines. He was roused by three light raps at his door. It was
Roland who came to see how he had passed the night. He found him radiant
as the sun playing among the already yellow leaves of the chestnuts and
the lindens.

"Oh! oh! Sir John," cried Roland, "permit me to congratulate you. I
expected to find you as gloomy as the poor monks of the Chartreuse, with
their long white robes, who used to frighten me so much in my childhood;
though, to tell the truth, I was never easily frightened. Instead of
that I find you in the midst of this dreary October, as smiling as a
morn of May."

"My dear Roland," replied Sir John, "I am an orphan; I lost my mother
at my birth and my father when I was twelve years old. At an age when
children are usually sent to school, I was master of a fortune producing
a million a year; but I was alone in the world, with no one whom I loved
or who loved me. The tender joys of family life are completely unknown
to