s dying day forgot the compassionate look that accompanied
them. The old priest left his mark.

Winter had passed, and Spring was far advanced before Tournier paid his
first visit to Mr. Cosin. It was not want of sociability or indifference
to the friendship of such a very genial man that made him delay. He
himself was naturally a very jolly sort of fellow, so that his friend,
Villemet, could not in the least make out the transformation. In fact,
he began to think him _un peu timbre_. However, at last, he made up his
mind to call at the Manor Farm; and one sunny day he appeared at the
door, somewhat like a martyr tied to the stake, but without his
cheerfulness of resignation. He had not long to wait. The door was
opened with a will, and Cosin himself stood before him with welcome
beaming in his face. There could be no doubt of it. His friend, whom he
had treated so coldly, was heartily glad to see him, and said as much.

"Can you forgive me, Mr. Cosin, for being so long in accepting your kind
invitation?"

"Not a word about it. I am delighted to have you under my roof," and he
led him into a cosy sitting-room, where a young lady was sitting at work.

"Let me introduce you to my sister, Captain Tournier. Oh, but you must
not be so formal, dear Alice, in your welcome to my friend. I have been
expecting him too long for that. Give him your hand."

And she did so in the prettiest way imaginable, with all the simple grace
of true kindness of heart.

The effect on Tournier was reviving. It reminded him of happy days gone
by, which he never thought to see again.

Alice Cosin was a girl worth looking at. And the gallant captain could
not refrain from doing so whenever it was possible without rudeness. And
if his true love, in France, had been watching him, she would have found
no fault, if her love were as true as his. A jealous woman is a
distrustful one; and a man who makes his own love first will always keep
her first, however he may admire another. So it was, at all events, with
Tournier.

And how shall we describe the young lady? It shall be done briefly. She
was not what connoisseurs would call a beauty. Her features were not
altogether regular enough for that, and _very_ regular features are
rather of the dutch-doll type of beauty. But her open brow looked
honesty itself, while a slightly aquiline nose betokened force of
character of the true feminine type. The eyes, however, formed the gre