o gave me a thick letter, to put into the post
for France, in the first town we should pass through--which I have done."

"And do you think we shall be at Paris in time?"

"I hope so; still, if you are strong enough, we must sometimes make
forced marches--for, if we only travel our five leagues a day, and that
without accident, we shall scarcely reach Paris until the beginning of
February, and it is better to be a little beforehand."

"But as father is in--India, and condemned to death if he return to
France, when shall we see him?"

"And where shall we see him?"

"Poor children! there are so many things you have yet to learn. When the
traveller quitted him, the general could not return to France, but now he
can do so."

"And why is that?"

"Because the Bourbons, who had banished him, were themselves turned out
last year. The news must reach India, and your father will certainly come
to meet you at Paris, because he expects that you and your mother will be
there on the 13th of next February."

"Ah! now I understand how we may hope to see him," said Rose with a sigh.

"Do you know the name of this traveller, Dagobert?"

"No, my children; but whether called Jack or John, he is a good sort.
When he left your mother, she thanked him with tears for all his kindness
and devotion to the general, herself, and the children; but he pressed
her hands in his, and said to her, in so gentle a voice that I could not
help being touched by it: 'Why do you thank me? Did He not Say--LOVE YE
ONE ANOTHER!'"

"Who is that, Dagobert?"

"Yes, of whom did the traveller speak?"

"I know nothing about it; only the manner in which he pronounced those
words struck me, and they were the last he spoke."

"Love one another!" repeated Rose, thoughtfully.

"How beautiful are those words!" added Blanche.

"And whither was the traveller going?"

"Far, very far into the North, as he told your mother. When she saw him
depart, she said to me: 'His mild, sad talk has affected me even to
tears; whilst I listened to him, I seemed to be growing better--I seemed
to love my husband and my children more--and yet, to judge by the
expression of his countenance, one would think that this stranger had
never either smiled or wept!' She and I watched him from the door as long
as we could follow him with our eyes; he carried his head down, and his
walk was slow, calm, and firm; one might fancy that he counted his steps.
And, talking of steps, I remark