ecame feeble as he finished speaking,
and a settled expression of grief clothed his features, which were pale
as death.

"I must see Sevres once more," said he, after a pause. "I must look on
the old houses of the village, and the little gardens, and the venerable
church; they will be the only things to greet me there now, but I must
gaze on them ere I close my eyes to this world and its cares."

"Come, come, Father," said I; "to one who has acted so noble a part as
yours, life is never without its own means of happiness."

"I spoke not of death," replied he, mildly; "but the holy calm of a
convent will better suit my seared and worn heart than all that the
world calls its joys and pleasures. You, who are young and full of
hope--"

"Alas! Father, speak not thus. One can better endure the lowering skies
of misfortune as the evening of life draws near than when the morn
of existence is breaking. To me, with youth and health, there is no
future,--no hope."

"I will not hear you speak thus," said the priest; "fatigue and
weariness are on you now. Wait until to-morrow,--we shall be
fellow-travellers together; and then, if you will reveal to me your
story, mayhap my long experience of the world may suggest comfort and
consolation where you can see neither."

The storm by this time had abated much of its violence, and across the
moon the large clouds were wafted speedily, disclosing bright patches of
light at every moment.

"Such is our life here," said the father,--"alternating with its days of
happiness and sorrow. Let us learn, in the dark hour of our destiny, to
bear the glare of our better fortunes; for, believe me, that when our
joys are greatest, so are our trials also."

He ceased speaking, and I saw that soon afterwards his lips moved as if
in prayer. I now laid myself down in my cloak beside the fire, and was
soon buried in a sleep too sound even for a dream.

CHAPTER XXVII. A CHANCE MEETING.

With the good priest of Sevres I journeyed along towards the frontier of
France, ever selecting the least frequented paths, and such as were not
likely to be taken by the troops of soldiery which daily moved towards
Berlin. The frankness of my companion had made me soon at ease with
him; and I told him, without reserve, the story of my life, down to the
decisive moment of my leaving the army.

"You see, Father," said I, "how completely my career has failed; how,
with all the ardor of a soldier, with all the de