y_! and, good
man, do not cease to worry until we are safe home. Tell the cure
he has something to do now. I have worn out my rosary, and am
losing faith. Tell him to try his.

"Your affectionate
"LOUISON."

"She is an odd girl," said the count, as I gave back the letter,
"so full of fun, so happy, so bright, so quick--always on her
tiptoes. Come, you are tired; you have ridden far in the dust. I
shall make you glad to be here."

A groom took my horse, and the count led me down a wooded slope to
the lakeside. Octagonal water-houses, painted white, lay floating
at anchor near us. He rowed me to one of them for a bath. Inside
was a rug and a table and soap and linen. A broad panel on a side
of the floor came up as I pulled a cord, showing water clear and
luminous to the sandy lake-bottom. The glow of the noonday filled
the lake to its shores, and in a moment I clove the sunlit
depths--a rare delight after my long, hot ride.

At luncheon we talked of the war, and he made much complaint of the
Northern army, as did everybody those days.

"My boy," said he, "you should join Perry on the second lake. It
is your only chance to fight, to win glory."

He told me then of the impending battle and of Perry's great need
of men. I had read of the sea-fighting and longed for a part in
it. To climb on hostile decks and fight hand to hand was a thing
to my fancy. Ah, well! I was young then. At the count's table
that day I determined to go, if I could get leave.

Therese and a young Parisienne, her friend, were at luncheon with
us. They bade us adieu and went away for a gallop as we took
cigars. We had no sooner left the dining room than I called for my
horse. Due at the Harbor that evening, I could give myself no
longer to the fine hospitality of the count. In a few moments I
was bounding over the road, now cool in deep forest shadows. A
little way on I overtook Therese and the Parisienne. The former
called to me as I passed. I drew rein, coming back and stopping
beside her. The other went on at a walk.

"M'sieur le Capitaine, have you any news of them--of Louise and
Louison?" she inquired. "You and my father were so busy talking I
could not ask you before."

"I know this only: they are in captivity somewhere, I cannot tell
where."

"You look worried, M'sieur le Capitaine; you have not the happy
face, the merry look, any longer. In June you were a boy, in
August--voila! it is a man! Per