ication of an unusual event, for Pauline knew that Blanche had never
passed a night out of Batoche's cabin.

"Are you alone, my dear?" she asked.

"Oh no, godmother, grandfather is with me."

"Where?"

"Down stairs."

"And is any one with him?"

"Yes, M. Belmont is with him. He came to see M. Belmont."

These words somewhat reassured Pauline. She knew that Batoche seldom, if
ever, came to the city, but probably the circumstances of the time
forced him to do so this night, and he had carried his granddaughter
with him in case he should have to tarry too long. She, therefore,
proceeded to unfasten the child's hood and cloak.

"Come to the fire," she said, "and warm yourself, while I get you some
cakes and sweets from the cup-board."

As she said this, she noticed the same peculiar look in the eyes of the
little girl.

"Tell me, Blanche, what is the matter?" she asked.

"I don't know, godmother, except that I must spend the night with you."

"Spend the night with me? Well, that is right. I will take good care of
you, my dear. But are you sure of what you say? Who told you so?"

"M. Belmont himself."

"My father sent you up to me."

"Yes, and he said I must remain with you until he and grandfather called
for me."

"And they are both downstairs?"

The child's face put on that strange look again, as she answered:

"They were there just now, but--"

A great fear fell on the heart of poor Pauline. She knew instinctively
that something was amiss.

"Come down with me, Blanche," she whispered, taking the child by the
hand and leading her, on tip-toe, to the lower rooms. There was silence
in the passage. The lights in the parlor were extinguished. The sitting
apartment behind was deserted. Her father's cap and great coat were gone
from their hooks in the hall. She went to the maid's room and found the
girl fast asleep, in consequence of which there was no information to be
obtained from that quarter. She went to the front door and looked out
upon the street. She could easily distinguish the footprints of men in
the snow on the steps, and the trace of a carriole's runners describing
a sharp curve from the edge of the sidewalk.

"They are gone," she murmured.

And folding Blanche in her embrace, she returned to her chamber.

"Don't cry, little godmother," said Blanche, throwing her arms around
Pauline's neck. "Grandfather told me he would come for me before
morning."

Just then the muffled tread of sol