his past and
meditate upon the future. It had an attraction for him, this old
place, more, perhaps, for the reason that scarce any one ever came
into it on week days, except himself and a decrepit gravedigger to
occasionally open old graves or prepare new ones, than for any other;
but also because there was one tombstone that interested him sadly. It
bore upon it a child's name, "Dorothy," and told how she had died,
"aged three," in January, "in the yeare of Oure Lorde" 1688. And below
the scroll of flowers, with an angel's head in their midst, was the
quotation from Kings: "Is it well with the child? And she answered,
It is well."

To his seared and bruised heart some sad yet tender comfort seemed to
be afforded by this stone, which marked and recorded the death of one
whose very name partly resembled the name of her he had lost--whose
little life had been taken from her almost at the very time Dorine was
snatched away from him. And the question of the prophet was the
question that he so often asked in his prayers. The answer was that
which so often he beseeched his Maker to vouchsafe to him.

He was seated opposite to this stone on the day he first received
Boussac's letter, having brought it out with him to peruse in quiet.
He was seated on it now, many months later, as he reread the
mousquetaire's words which told him that Dorine was well, and, he
thought, not unhappy. And he raised his eyes to the words of the
Shunamite woman and murmured, "It is well with the child," and
whispered, "God, I thank thee!" as he had done on the day when first
the letter came to him. Then he continued:

"We passed through Troyes, monsieur, three months after you, and I saw
her. She was a little outside the town, with an elderly _bonne_, hand
in hand. I obtained permission to quit the ranks for a moment--I was
not then promoted, you will understand--and, dismounting and leading
my horse toward them--you remember the good horse, monsieur?--I said
to the woman, 'Whose child is that, madame?' She drew away from me,
gathered the _petite_ to her, and answered, 'Mine,' whereon I smiled;
for I could not be harsh with her--the little creature looked so well
cared for----"

Again St. Georges lifted up his eyes, again he murmured, "I thank
Thee!" and again went on with the letter:

"'And the father,' I demanded, 'where may he be?' 'Dead,' she
answered. 'You know that?' I asked hurriedly, and she replied, 'Ay, I
know it, monsieur.' But," Bo