ttle heroine had lived quietly for many months in the faubourg
lodgings to which, perforce, she had to return after her vain visit to
the Frochard cellar and her rough handling by the Carmognole rioters.
The little sparrow of a seamstress was quite undisturbed by the great
events of the French Revolution, except as they had put everything at
sixes and sevens and whirled away her own intimates in the mad
whirligig.

The pock-marked man (whom she had sheltered overnight in this very
place) was the Savior of the Country; the prying lodger Robespierre
was the Chief of State. Of course she never saw them now, her small
self would hardly dare address them! Sister Genevieve and the Doctor,
who had told her about the Frochards' den, were no longer within her
ken.

The weary months had dragged along. Notwithstanding the cheering
message conveyed by Picard, her knight the Chevalier--so far as she
knew--was still a prisoner of Caen. And the weary months had dragged
their ball and chain of silence and despair still more wearingly in
the failure of her many renewed attempts to find Louise. The blind
sister was again swallowed up in the devouring city--the Frochards
were fled.

Whither was Henriette to look--whither to turn?

A ray of light from the window glinted on the holy Book of books that
the girl treasured. She opened it. A line read at random comforted
her. Clasping the volume in her hands, she knelt in prayer, addressing
God softly:

"Thou who hast said: 'I am the Light!' oh, show me the way!"

At the sound of a knock at the door, the girl rose from her
supplications. Entered sad and dusty pilgrim, carrying his few
belongings in bag suspended from shoulder stick. Now they dropped
sharply to the floor, and the disguised Chevalier gazed long and
earnestly upon his love.

Her eyes in turn were riveted on his sad, lean apparition, how
terribly changed from the old debonair days! Kind sympathy spoke in
her look and mien till the radiance of love, beginning in little
ghosts of welcoming smiles at the corners of her mouth, broke into
clear effulgence.

The Chevalier tottered forward. He collapsed into the nearest chair.

She put her arms around him and hovered there, comforting him with
affectionate little hand pats and soft kisses.

Jacques-Forget-Not, the avenger of the de Vaudreys, had not been far
behind during the pilgrim's tramp across the city. He had in fact
sneaked back of him, seen the wanderer enter Henriet