ly that they all laughed. But
the remark made by Clarisse bore its fruit, and the soldier rose to go.
But it took him some time to get off. There was his lantern to light,
his gloves to button; and the girl took all these duties on herself. At
last the soldier was in readiness; his hood was pulled over his eyes, a
scarf wound about his throat, then Zenaide said good night, and watched
her Esquimau-looking lover somewhat anxiously down the street. What
perils might he not have to run in that thick darkness!

Her stepmother called her impatiently. The nervous excitement of
Clarisse had momentarily increased. Jack had noticed this, and also that
she looked constantly at the clock.

"How cold it must be to-night on the Loire," said Zenaide.

"Cold, indeed!" answered Clarisse, with a shiver.

"Come," she said, as the clock struck ten, "let us go to bed."

Then seeing that Jack was about to lock the outer door as usual, she
stopped him, saying,--

"I have done it myself. Let us go up stairs."

But Zenaide had not finished talking of M. Maugin. "Do you like his
moustache, Jack?" she asked.

"Will you go to bed?" asked Madame Rondic, pretending to laugh, but
trembling nervously.

At last the three are on the narrow staircase.

"Good night," said Clarisse; "I am dying with sleep."

But her eyes were very bright. Jack put his foot on his ladder, but
Zenaide's room was so crowded with her gifts and purchases, that it
seemed to him a most auspicious occasion to pass them in review. Friends
had had them under examination, and they were still displayed on the
commode: some silver spoons, a prayer-book, gloves, and all about
tumbled bits of paper and the colored ribbon that had fastened these
gifts from the chateau; then came the more humble presents from the
wives of the employes. Zenaide showed them all with pride. The boy
uttered exclamations of wonder. "But what shall I give her?" he said to
himself over and over again.

"And my trousseau, Jack, you have not seen it! Wait, and I will show it
to you."

With a quaint old key she opened the carved wardrobe that had been in
the family for a hundred years; the two doors swung open, a delicious
violet perfume filled the room, and Jack could see and admire the piles
of sheets spun by the first Madame Rondic, and the ruffled and fluted
linen piled in snowy masses.

In fact, Jack had never seen such a display. His mother's wardrobe held
laces and fine embroideries, not ho