gged the
blanket over him, broke the bread into the milk, and played the nurse
once more.

On that day thousands of prisoners in the city of Paris alone awoke
from the shadow of death to the hope of life. The Reign of Terror was
ended!

CHAPTER III.

It was a year of Grace early in the present century.

We are again in the beautiful country of beautiful France. It is the
chateau once more. It is the same, but changed. The unapproachable
elegance, the inviolable security, have witnessed invasion. The right
wing of the chateau is in ruins, with traces of fire upon the
blackened walls; while here and there, a broken statue or a roofless
temple are sad memorials of the Revolution. Within the restored part
of the chateau, however, all looks well. Monsieur the Viscount has
been fortunate, and if not so rich a man as his father, has yet
regained enough of his property to live with comfort, and, as he
thinks, luxury. The long rooms are little less elegant than in former
days, and Madame the present Viscountess's boudoir is a model of
taste. Not far from it is another room, to which it forms a singular
contrast. This room belongs to Monsieur the Viscount. It is small,
with one window. The floor and walls are bare, and it contains no
furniture; but on the floor is a worn-out pallet, by which lies a
stone, and on that a broken pitcher, and in a little frame against the
wall is preserved a crumpled bit of paper like the fly-leaf of some
little book, on which is a half-effaced inscription, which can be
deciphered by Monsieur the Viscount if by no one else. Above the
window is written in large letters, a date and the word REMEMBER.
Monsieur the Viscount is not likely to forget, but he is afraid of
himself and of prosperity lest it should spoil him.

It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along the
terrace with Madame on his arm. He has only one to offer her, for
where the other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, on
which a bit of ribbon is stirred by the breeze. Monsieur the Viscount
has not been idle since we saw him last; the faith that taught him to
die, has taught him also how to live--an honourable, useful life.

It is evening, and the air comes up perfumed from a bed of violets by
which Monsieur the Viscount is kneeling. Madame (who has a fair face
and ashen hair) stands by him with her little hand on his shoulder,
and her large eyes upon the violets.

"My friend! my friend! my