ther happiness?...

But hush! What are our poor words in the presence of these nobler
secrets of the wrestling and mounting spirit!

* * * * *

On the way down she saw another figure emerge from the dark.

"Lady Blanche!"

Lady Blanche stood still.

"The hotel was stifling," she said, in a voice that vainly tried for
steadiness.

Julie perceived that she had been weeping.

"Aileen is asleep?"

"Perhaps. They have given her something to make her sleep."

They walked on towards the hotel.

Julie hesitated.

"She was not disappointed?" she said, at last, in a low voice.

"No!" said the mother, sharply. "But one knew, of course, there must be
letters for her. Thank God, she can feel that his very last thought was
for her! The letters which have reached her are dated the day before the
fatal attack began--giving a complete account of his march--most
interesting--showing how he trusted her already--though she is such a
child. It will tranquillize her to feel how completely she possessed his
heart--poor fellow!"

Julie said nothing, and Lady Blanche, with bitter satisfaction, felt
rather than saw what seemed to her the just humiliation expressed in the
drooping and black-veiled figure beside her.

Next day there was once more a tinge of color on Aileen's cheeks. Her
beautiful hair fell round her once more in a soft life and confusion,
and the roses which her mother had placed beside her on the bed were not
in too pitiful contrast with her frail loveliness.

"Read it, please," she said, as soon as she found herself alone with
Julie, pushing her letter tenderly towards her. "He tells me
everything--everything! All he was doing and hoping--consults me in
everything. Isn't it an honor--when I'm so ignorant and childish? I'll
try to be brave--try to be worthy--"

And while her whole frame was shaken with deep, silent sobs, she
greedily watched Julie read the letter.

"Oughtn't I to try and live," she said, dashing away her tears, as Julie
returned it, "when he loved me so?"

Julie kissed her with a passionate and guilty pity. The letter might
have been written to any friend, to any charming child for whom a much
older man had a kindness. It gave a business-like account of their
march, dilated on one or two points of policy, drew some humorous
sketches of his companions, and concluded with a few affectionate and
playful sentences.

But when the wrestle with death began, Warkw