rable. Neither the young woman's
coaxing, nor the soldier's serious displeasure could move him. His sole
answer was:--

"Pauline will see no one but Mademoiselle Sarpy, and that only later."

"But I _will_ see her," Cary would say, emphasizing the resolve with
hand and foot.

"Then, find her, Captain," was the taunting reply.

It was some comfort to their mutual anxiety, however, that Batoche
assured them of their friend's improved health.

But this situation could not last. At the end of the third day, the old
soldier ran out to Valcartier, and was so alarmed at the relapse which
he witnessed, that he almost immediately returned to quarters. Cary at
once divined the truth from his altered appearance.

"Batoche, I command you to tell me where she is."

"Patience, Captain," was the reply, delivered in accents of sorrow and
pity. "Your command is just and shall be obeyed. You have a right to see
Pauline, and you shall see her. But Mademoiselle Zulma must go first.
You will follow. I hasten to Pointe-aux-Trembles."

Zulma required no lengthy summons. She ordered the caleche to be
brought out at once, and with Batoche, drove rapidly to Valcartier. What
a meeting! Never had Zulma so much need of her self-possession. If she
had yielded to her impulse, she would have filled the house with
screams. It was not Pauline that lay before her--only her shadow. It was
not the living, laughing girl whom she had known--the stamp of death was
set upon every fair lineament. She bent softly down, laid her head
beside the marble brow upon the pillow, folded her arms around Pauline's
neck, and clasped her in a long, yearning embrace. Then they communed
together, almost mouth to mouth, with that miraculous sweetness which is
God's divinest gift to women. Pauline revived for the occasion. She was
so happy to see Zulma. She, that had wished to die alone and
forgotten--it was almost the dawn of resurrection to have her dearest
friend beside her now at length. All was gone over, quietly, gradually,
amid pauses of tears, and the interruption of kisses, yet so rapidly
that, before half an hour had elapsed, Zulma had completely made up her
mind. Brushing back the moist brown hair from the throbbing temples of
the sick girl, she rose serene, majestic, with the light of a great
resolution in her eyes, and the placidity of heroism on her beautiful
features. Stepping out of the room she called Batoche.

"Take my caleche. Drive to the camp, and