ain to the window and this time pulled it open. The moonlight
instantly flooded the room, dimming the candles which she had lighted.
She saw her shadow, and started back in horror.

"Some one glided behind the old oak in the park," she cried aloud, for
the company of her voice. "Oh, oh! Nell will be murdered! I begged her
not to go to Portsmouth's ball. She said she just wanted to peep in and
pay her respects to the hostess. Moll! You better pray."

She fell upon her knees and reverently lifted her hands and eyes in
prayer.

Something fell in the room with a heavy thud. She shut her eyes tight
and prayed harder. The object of her fear was a long gray boot, which
had been thrown in at the window and had fallen harmlessly by her side.
It was followed in an instant by its mate, equally harmless yet equally
dreadful.

A jaunty figure, assisted by a friendly shoulder, then bounded over the
balustrade and rested with a sigh of relief just within the
window-opening. It was Nell, returning from the wars; she was pale,
almost death-like. The evening's excitement, her daring escapade and
more especially its exciting finish had taken hold of her in earnest.
Her dainty little self was paying the penalty. She was all of a tremble.

"Safe home at last!" she cried wearily. "Heaven reward you, Strings."

From below the terrace, without the window, responded the fiddler, in
sympathetic, loving tones: "Good night, Mistress Nell; and good sleep."

"Good night, comrade," answered Nell, as she almost fell into the room,
calling faintly: "Moll! Moll! What are you doing, Moll?"

Moll closed her eyes tighter and prayed still more fervently.

"Praying for Nell," her trembling lips mechanically replied.

"Humph!" cried Nell, half fainting, throwing herself upon the couch.
"There's no spirit in this flesh worth praying for. Some wine, some
wine; and the blessing after."

The command brought Moll to her senses and she realized that it was
really Nell who had entered thus unceremoniously. She rushed to her for
safety, like a frightened deer to the lake.

"Nell, dear Nell!" she cried. "You are ill."

"Wine, wine, I say," again fell in peremptory tones from the
half-reclining Nell.

Moll glanced in dismay at her bootless mistress: her garments all awry;
her sword ill sheathed; her cloak uncaught from the shoulder and half
used, petticoat-like, as a covering for her trembling-limbs; her hair
dishevelled; her cheeks pale; her wild eyes,