hia
with ever-increasing admiration, and for once he admitted the wisdom of
such British statesmanship as that of Pitt Burke and Barre, the immortal
friends of the American Colonies.

All these things little Pauline remembered and pondered as she sat in
her low chair looking into the fire. She did not do so in the
consecutive form or the big words which we have just employed, but her
remembrance was none the less vivid and her perplexity none the less
keen, for all the phases of her father's mental life were well known to
her in those simple intuitive ways which are peculiar to women. She
concluded by asking herself these questions:

"Has my father said or done anything to compromise himself within the
last few hours? Why did M. de Cramahe send for him in such haste? The
Governor is a friend of the family and must surely have cause for what
he has done. And why was my poor father so agitated, why the young
officer so grave, why the people so deeply impressed at the scene?"

She looked up at the clock over the mantel and found that an hour had
been spent in these musings. Her father had promised to be back within
that hour, and yet there were no signs of him. She went to the window
and looked out, but she failed to see his familiar form advancing
through the snow-storm.

We have said that Pauline's life was wholly wrapped up in her father.
That was strictly true in one sense, but in another sense, we must make
note of an exception. There were new feelings just awakening in her
heart. She was entering that delicious period of existence which is the
threshold of the paradise of love.

"Oh! if he were only to come," she murmured, "or if I could go to him.
He would relieve my anxiety at once. I will write him a note."

She went to her table and was preparing paper and pen, when the maid
entered the room and delivered her a letter.

"It is from himself, I declare," she exclaimed, and all the sorrow was
dispelled from her eyes. She opened the letter and read.

Dear Pauline:--

I saw you going into the church this morning and wanted to speak to
you, but you were too quick for me. I should very much have liked
to run up in the course of the forenoon, but that too was
impossible. So I send a line to say that I am off at noon on
military duty. I don't know yet where I am going, nor how long I
shall be away. But I trust the journey will be neither far nor
long. I shall see you imme