his hand to his heart.

"Thank God!" he cried. "It is yet beating! Send for the surgeon!"

At the captain's words Francoise leaped to her feet.

"There is hope!" she cried. "Oh, tell me there is hope!"

At that moment the surgeon appeared. He made a hasty examination and
said:

"The young man is severely hurt, but life is not extinct; he can
be saved!" By the surgeon's orders Dominique was transported to a
neighboring cottage, where he was placed in bed. His wounds were
dressed; restoratives were administered, and he soon recovered
consciousness. When he opened his eyes he saw Francoise sitting beside
him and through the open window caught sight of Pere Merlier talking
with the French captain. He passed his hand over his forehead with a
bewildered air and said:

"They did not kill me after all!"

"No," replied Francoise. "The French came, and their surgeon saved you."

Pere Merlier turned and said through the window:

"No talking yet, my young ones!"

In due time Dominique was entirely restored, and when peace again
blessed the land he wedded his beloved Francoise.

The mill was rebuilt, and Pere Merlier had a new wheel upon which to
bestow whatever tenderness was not engrossed by his daughter and her
husband.

CAPTAIN BURLE

CHAPTER I

THE SWINDLE

It was nine o'clock. The little town of Vauchamp, dark and silent,
had just retired to bed amid a chilly November rain. In the Rue des
Recollets, one of the narrowest and most deserted streets of the
district of Saint-Jean, a single window was still alight on the third
floor of an old house, from whose damaged gutters torrents of water were
falling into the street. Mme Burle was sitting up before a meager fire
of vine stocks, while her little grandson Charles pored over his lessons
by the pale light of a lamp.

The apartment, rented at one hundred and sixty francs per annum,
consisted of four large rooms which it was absolutely impossible to keep
warm during the winter. Mme Burle slept in the largest chamber, her
son Captain and Quartermaster Burle occupying a somewhat smaller one
overlooking the street, while little Charles had his iron cot at the
farther end of a spacious drawing room with mildewed hangings, which was
never used. The few pieces of furniture belonging to the captain and his
mother, furniture of the massive style of the First Empire, dented and
worn by continuous transit from one garrison town to another, almost
disappear