in the still air. Up-stairs
little Alixe was sobbing herself to sleep in Barbara's arms; in
his own chamber the old vicomte paced to and fro, and to and fro,
and his sweet-faced wife watched him in silence, her thin hand
shading her eyes in the lamplight. In the next room Sir Thorald
and Lady Hesketh sat close together, whispering. Only Betty
Castlemaine and Cecil Page had lost little of their cheerfulness,
perhaps because neither were French, and Cecil was not going to
the war, and--after all, war promised to be an exciting thing,
and well worth the absorbed attention of two very young lovers.
Arm in arm, they promenaded the empty halls and galleries,
meeting no one save here and there a pale-faced maid or scared
flunky; and at length they entered the gilded ballroom where
Dorothy lay, flung full length on the canape.

She submitted to Betty's caresses, and went away to bed with her,
saying good-night to Cecil in a tear-choked voice; and a moment
later Cecil sought his own chamber, lighted a pipe, and gave
himself up to delightful visions of Betty, protected from several
Prussian army-corps by the single might of his strong right arm.

At the foot of the terrace, Lorraine de Nesville stood with Jack,
watching the dark drive for the lamps of the returning carriage.
Her maid loitered near, exchanging whispered gossip with the
groom, who now stood undecided, holding both horses and waiting
for orders. Presently Jack asked him where the messengers were,
and he said he didn't know, but that they had perhaps gone to the
kitchens for refreshments.

"Go and find them, then; here, give me the bridles," said Jack;
"if they are eating, let them finish; I'll hold their horses. Why
doesn't Mademoiselle de Nesville's carriage come back from
Saint-Lys? When you leave the kitchens, go down the road and look
for it. Tell them to hurry."

The groom touched his cap and hastened away.

"I wish the carriage would come--I wish the carriage would
hurry," repeated Lorraine, at intervals. "My father is alone; I
am nervous, I don't know why. What are you reading?"

"My telegram from the New York _Herald_," he answered,
thoughtfully.

"It is easy to understand now," she said.

"Yes, easy to understand. They want me for war correspondent."

"Are you going?"

"I don't know--" He hesitated, trying to see her eyes in the
darkness. "I don't know; shall you stay here in the Moselle
Valley?"

"Yes--I suppose so."

"You are very near