mattered it to Zulma and Cary that the autumn skies were low, that
the winds moaned dismally through the leafless woods, that the snow
clouded the face of the sun and charged the atmosphere with inclement
moisture? They sat together before the blazing fire-place, and conversed
for hours, quite forgetful of the dreary winter that was setting in. Or
they stood together at the window, and as they conversed, unconsciously
contrasted the light and warmth that reigned in their hearts with the
cold and gloom of the waning year outside. Or they lingered on the
portico, loath to part for the day, and never minded the bleakness of
the weather, in the hope of meeting again. What mattered it that
Singleton had military duties to perform which retained him in camp for
many hours of each day, or sent him at the head of scouting parties,
over the country in search of provisions or to watch the movements of
the enemy? He managed his time so well that while never, in a single
instance, neglecting his business as a soldier, he found the means of
satisfying the claims of the lover. These very difficulties only gave
zest to the excitement in which he lived, and he was happy to know,
although she never said it, that they added to Zulma's sense of
appreciation.

Another circumstance deserving of mention is that the young rifleman's
visits to the Sarpy mansion were so conducted as to be a secret to his
companions-in-arms. There was a purpose in this, although neither Cary,
nor Zulma, nor M. Sarpy ever exchanged a word about it together. The
stay of the Continental army at Pointe-aux-Trembles was only temporary.
Its stay around Quebec, after it returned there, would be at least
rather precarious. It was, therefore, hardly desirable that one of its
officers should be known to have contracted other than military
engagements which might bind his good name among the vicissitudes of a
most hazardous war. Thus there was a dash of calculation in the romance
of Cary's love, a reserve of good sense amid all the impetuousness which
buoyed his heart. It is ever thus with men. They are rarely whole
lovers. Their ingrained selfishness always pierces, however slightly, to
mar the completeness of their sacrifice.

It was not so with the Canadian girl. She had that glorious
independence--the gift of superior women--which cares not for the prying
eyes of all the world. She did not mind who knew of the American
soldier's visit to her father's home. She would n