some measure a comfort to him, one of those fancies of
the imagination that we know is never to be realized and with which we
fondle ourselves in our hours of melancholy.

For her part, such thoughts had never for a moment presented themselves
to Henriette's mind. Since the day of the horrible tragedy at Bazeilles
her bruised heart had lain numb and lifeless in her bosom, and if
consolation in the shape of a new affection had found its way thither,
it could not be otherwise than without her knowledge; the latent
movement of the seed deep-buried in the earth, which bursts its sheath
and germinates, unseen of human eye. She failed even to perceive
the pleasure it afforded her to remain for hours at a time by Jean's
bedside, reading to him those newspapers that never brought them tidings
save of evil. Never had her pulses beat more rapidly at the touch of his
hand, never had she dwelt in dreamy rapture on the vision of the future
with a longing to be loved once more. And yet it was in that chamber
alone that she found comfort and oblivion. When she was there, busying
herself with noiseless diligence for her patient's well-being, she was
at peace; it seemed to her that soon her brother would return and all
would be well, they would all lead a life of happiness together and
never more be parted. And it appeared to her so natural that things
should end thus that she talked of their relations without the slightest
feeling of embarrassment, without once thinking to question her heart
more closely, unaware that she had already made the chaste surrender of
it.

But as she was on the point of leaving for the hospital one afternoon
she looked into the kitchen as she passed and saw there a Prussian
captain and two other officers, and the icy terror that filled her
at the sight, then, for the first time, opened her eyes to the deep
affection she had conceived for Jean. It was plain that the men had
heard of the wounded man's presence at the farm and were come to claim
him; he was to be torn from them and led away captive to the dungeon of
some dark fortress deep in Germany. She listened tremblingly, her heart
beating tumultuously.

The captain, a big, stout man, who spoke French with scarce a trace of
foreign accent, was rating old Fouchard soundly.

"Things can't go on in this way; you are not dealing squarely by us. I
came myself to give you warning, once for all, that if the thing happens
again I shall take other steps to rem