life and
something to do, had hired the Manor Farm in Yaxley. The house was of no
great size, but built of stone, picturesque, and of considerable
antiquity; and it stood, as we have already said, on the opposite side of
the road to the church, looking towards the west end, where its handsome
tower stands, with lofty well-proportioned spire, a conspicuous object to
all the fen country for miles around. It was about a mile from the
Norman Cross barracks.

About two years before this Mr. Cosin had met with the greatest loss that
can befall a man. He had lost his wife. It changed the whole complexion
of his future. He was like a traveller who had come to the crest of a
ridge from which he could look back on the road he had traversed, and the
unknown future was spread before him, sharply separated from all the
past. In his case that had been a happy past--a very happy past. But
the future, whatever it might be, must at least be without _her_. He was
still a young man, and without a family; but he determined to have a
sister for his companion, and a sweet memory for his wife.

What a strange idea! many may say, or something stronger.

Well. It may be so. But he did it.

When Tournier returned to the barracks after his meeting with Cosin, he
fell in with his young friend, who has already been alluded to, and whose
name was Villemet.

"Somebody has been asking after you, Tournier."

"Who was he?" but not the slightest curiosity was in the tone of enquiry.

"Our bishop."

The interest fell lower, if possible.

"You mean the chaplain. What does he want?"

"To see you."

Tournier was a gentleman, and therefore repressed the exclamation that
was rising to his lips, and simply said, "Oh!" in a very languid sort of
way.

But it was true. The chaplain to the prisoners had been asking after
Tournier, expressing a very great desire to see him; and the Chaplain was
none other than the Bishop of Moulines. He had voluntarily come to
England, out of pure compassion for his imprisoned countrymen; and with
true missionary zeal was giving himself up to their spiritual welfare. He
was a venerable-looking man, much respected by the prisoners generally.
It was a noble act of self-sacrifice. {44}

But his work among the prisoners was no sinecure. Many of them were
deeply tainted with the foul atheism engendered by the Revolution; many
more with the practical atheism that comes of reckless living. Scenes of
cruelty