d not help casting a look upon her as she moved about,
while Batoche, although he never raised his head, did not lose a single
one of her actions. Who can tell what passed in the bosoms of the three,
or how much of their lives they lived during these moments?

Zulma's ministrations had scarcely been concluded, when M. Belmont
returned with the parish priest of Valcartier, a venerable man, whose
smile, as he bowed to all the members of the group, and took in the
belongings of the room, was as inspiring as a spoken blessing. Its
influence too must have extended to the entranced Pauline, for, as he
approached her side, and sprinkled her with hyssop, breathing a prayer,
she slowly opened her eyes and gazed at him. Then turning to the lighted
tapers, and the snowy cloth, she smiled, saying:

"It is the extreme unction, Monsieur le Cure! I thank you."

The old priest, with that consummate knowledge of the world and the
human heart, which his long pastorate had given him, approached nearer,
and addressed her in a few earnest words, explaining everything. Then he
stepped aside, and revealed the presence of Cary. The two lovers folded
each other in a close embrace, and thus, heart against heart, they
communed together for a few moments. At the close, Pauline called for
Zulma, who was on her knees, at the foot of the bed and in shadow. The
meeting was short, but passionate. Finally, one word which Zulma spoke
had a magical effect, and the three turned their faces towards the
assistants, smiling through their tears.

The ceremony was brief. There in that presence, at that solemn hour, the
hands were joined, the benediction pronounced, and Cary and Pauline were
man and wife. The priest producing the parish register, the names of
the principals and witnesses were signed. Zulma wrote hers in a large
steady hand, but a tear, which she could not restrain, fell upon the
letters and blurred them.

"Rest now, my child," said the priest, as he took his departure.

Pauline, exhausted by fatigue and emotion, immediately relapsed into
slumber, but every trace of pain was gone, and her regular breathing
showed that she was enjoying a normal repose. Then Batoche, approaching
Cary, silently pointed to the clock.

"Alas! yes," said the latter, turning to M. Belmont and Zulma, "it is
now midnight, and the last act of this drama must be performed. Our camp
is thirty miles away, and the night is terrible. I rode here to
accomplish one duty. I