"I am, dear sir, respectfully
An afflicted father,
RENE LAURANCE.

"P.S.--Should you desire to communicate with me, my address for
several months will be, Care of the American Legation, Paris."

How many men or women, with lives of average length and incident,
have failed to recognize, nay to cower before the fact, that all
along the highways and byways of the earthly pilgrimage they have
been hounded by a dismal _cortege_ of retarded messages,--lost
opportunities,--miscarried warnings,--procrastinated prayers,--dilatory
deeds,--and laggard faces,--that howl for ever in their shuddering
ears--"Too late." Had Dr. Hargrove received this letter only
twenty-four hours earlier, the result of the interview on the
previous night would probably have been very different; but
unfortunately, while the army of belated facts--the fatal Grouchy
corps--never accomplish their intended mission, they avenge they
failure by a pertinacious presence ever after that is sometimes
almost maddening.

An uncomfortable consciousness of having been completely overreached
did not soften the minister's feelings toward the new custodian of
his tin box, and an utter revulsion of sentiment ensued, wherein
sympathy for General Rene Laurance reigned supreme. Oh instability of
human compassion! To-day at the tumultuous flood, we weep for Caesar
slain; To-morrow in the ebb, we vote a monument to Brutus.

Ere the sun had gone down behind the sombre frozen firs that fringed
the hills of V---- Dr. Hargrove had written to Mr. Peleg Peterson,
desiring to be furnished with some clue by which he could trace
Minnie Merle, and Hannah had been despatched to the post office, to
expedite the departure of the letter.

Weeks and months passed, tearful April wept itself away in the
flowery lap of blue-eyed May, and golden June roses died in the fiery
embrace of July, but no answer came; no additional information
drifted upon the waves of chance, and the slow stream of life at the
parsonage once more crept silently and monotonously on.

"Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
Who knows the Past? and who can judge us right?"

CHAPTER III.

The sweet-tongued convent bell had rung the Angelas, and all within
the cloistered courts was hushed, save the low monologue of the
fountain whose minor murmuring made solemn