the fine form of the young American soldier,
stretched out at full length under snow-white coverlets. The face was
drawn down and narrowed, the eyes were sunken, while the fever played
in lurid lines about the cheek-bones and ample forehead. The masses of
curly hair lay moist upon the pillow. By the dim light of the shaded
lamp on the table near by, Cary looked like a corpse, silent,
immoveable--how different from the manly figure which Batoche had seen
doing battle by his side in the terrible defile of Sault-au-Matelot.

Pauline sat in a low chair at the head of the bed, the loveliest picture
of sad, suffering beauty. There were dark lines under her eyes that told
of long watches, and a slight stoop in her shoulders indicative of
weariness against which the generous, loving spirit was struggling. When
the stranger entered the apartment with her father, she neither moved
from her seat nor made any sign. Her idea was that it was probably a
soldier whom Roderick, unable to come himself, had sent to inquire about
the invalid. But when the man approached nearer, and M. Belmont,
preceding him, whispered something in her ear, she rose with the
pressure of both hands upon her throbbing heart.

"Batoche!" she exclaimed in a smothered voice. "You are an angel of
Providence."

"I heard he was ill and I came to see him."

"Yes, you heard he was ill and you came, at the peril of your life. You
are a noble man, a generous friend. Oh, how he will be delighted to see
you. He sleeps; we cannot awake him, but when he awakes, your presence
will give him strength and courage. And Zulma----"

Just then there was a low rap at the front door, and the girl,
interrupting her speech, stepped out of the room and down stairs.

"It is Hardinge," said M. Belmont "Go into the adjoining room, Batoche.
He will not remain long. Perhaps, as the sick man is now reposing, he
may not come up stairs at all."

It was some moments before he ascended, being engaged in a colloquy with
Pauline, and when he did come up, it was only to gaze upon the sleeping
man for a few seconds. He contented himself with saying to M. Belmont
that he had just seen the doctor, who declared that this was the height
of the crisis, but that the chances were largely in favour of the
patient. Anything--the merest trifle--that would tend to cheer up his
moral nature at this time, without unduly exciting him, would most
probably determine a salutary change for the better.

M. Be