t took her_!"--neither did it seem incredible to him when she
assured him that the new house was like home. He honestly believed
that with the child--child he considered her--all things were
possible.

What he had lacked and missed so long that the restoration had a
charm of novelty about it, added to its own excellency, was now the
prisoner's portion. Good manners, kind and courteous voices, greeted
eyes and ears once more. As in the days of Joan Laval, a woman was
now sometimes in attendance on the prisoner. But in not one
particular did Pauline Montier resemble Joan Laval. She called
herself a soldier's wife, and was exact and brave accordingly. She
was thoughtful of her husband's charge, and when she paused in her
efforts for his comfort and content, it was because she had
exhausted the means within her reach, but not her wit in devising.

The effect was soon manifest. The prisoner received this care and
sympathy as he might have received the ministration of angels. The
attendance was almost entirely confined to Montier and his wife, but
now and then Elizabeth also could serve him. She served him with her
heart, with unobtrusive zeal that was exhaustless as the zeal of love.
Unobserved, she watched, as well as waited on him; and oh, how
jealous and impatient of time and authority did she become! Her pity
knew no limit; it beamed from her eyes, spoke through her voice, was
unceasing in activity. He was to her a romance terrible and sweet, a
romance that had more abundant fascination than the world could show
beside.

She went up to his room one morning, carrying his breakfast. Her
father had been ordered to the barracks, and her mother was not well;
the service therefore fell upon her.

The prisoner did not seem to heed her when she entered; at least, he
gave no sign, until she approached him, and even then was not the
first to speak. Going to the window, her eyes followed his to the
garden below.

"It looks well this morning," she said, pleasantly.

"Yes,--but I have seen prettier," he answered.

"Where?" she asked, so quickly that Manuel almost smiled as he
looked at her before he answered. He knew why she spoke thus, and
was not offended by the compassion of her sympathy.

"In my own home, Elizabeth," he answered.

"Aren't you _ever_ going back to it, Sir?" she asked, hurriedly.

He did not reply.

"Won't you ever see it again?" she persisted.

"Banishment,--a prisoner for life," said he, for the f