attitude. When he announced
his final departure to her, she heard him calmly, but her quiet was that
of mental and physical weakness. There was no energetic self-control in
her words or manner; merely a passive resignation. As she extended her
hand, and felt the warm kiss imprinted upon it, she was an object of
extreme pity, which added to the bitterness of Cary's sorrow.

The last farewell had been spoken and the two stood on the steps, at the
foot of which a cariole was waiting to convey the released prisoner to
his destination among his friends. Cary turned once more to meet the eye
of Pauline. As he did so, he paused, struck by a sudden thought, and,
going back a step or two, said:

"Pauline--allow me to call you by this name for perhaps the last
time--Pauline, promise me one thing. Take care of your health. I fear
that, after I am gone, you will replace me on that sick-bed, worn out by
wearing weeks of watching."

Two livid spots burned on Pauline's cheek, and there was a glassiness in
her eye. She leaned on the frame of the door for support, but mustered
strength enough to answer that she felt no illness and hoped that all
would turn out for the best. It was poor comfort; Cary had, however, to
be satisfied with it, and drove away with a very heavy heart.

He had not been two hours in the American camp, when he met Batoche. It
goes without saying that the meeting was of the heartiest, and, between
them, a visit to Pointe-aux-Trembles was planned for that same evening.
Zulma having heard of the negotiations for the exchange of prisoners,
the coming of Cary was not unexpected, and there was great rejoicing
that evening at the Sarpy Mansion, as over one who had been lost and was
found, who had died and had risen from the dead.

X.

ON THE BRINK.

Another month had passed. With the middle of April the balmy spring-time
was at hand. The snow had disappeared from mountain and plain; the
rivers flowed clear and abundant in their channels; the trees were
faintly burgeoning, and the heavens palpitated with an atmosphere of
genial warmth. The cattle, confined for so many months in the darkness
of stalls, lay basking in the sunshine, or trooped to the southern
slopes where the young grass was springing. The sheep skipped on the
hill sides. The doors and windows of the farm-houses were thrown wide
open for a vital freshening. The children played on the stoop. White
steam rose from the cracks and fissure of the