ng his arm around her, he drew her
closer to him, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.

"How many days of packing will you require, Pauline?" said he,
smiling. "Poor Marie! she has nearly worn her arms out."

"She will complete her task to-night; and if you like, we can be off
in the morning. But have you the carriages ready, _mon ami_? Are we
not before-hand with you?" asked Pauline, in the same cheerful strain.

"We must summon Francois," said M. de Vaissiere, "and see if my orders
have been executed."

Francois had been as prompt as usual; and three days after,
we found Pauline gazing out at the windows, mournful and
conscience-stricken--she was leaving Paris behind her as fast as four
horses and cracking whips could carry her. As they drove on, losing
sight of its towers and steeples, a sensation of freedom came over
her, and she placed her hand in her husband's, as if to thank him for
her safety. The wound upon her heart was not yet closed; but her firm
principle, her love of right, and gratitude for her deliverance, and
the indulgence of M. de Vaissiere were fast healing what she did not
for a moment allow to rest within her mind.

Every thing delighted her; the ploughed fields, divided by green
hedges; the farm-houses scattered far and near; the picturesque
appearance of the peasantry and their groupings, as they gathered
together to watch the travelers' suite; and when they stopped at a
family estate of M. de Vassiere, her enthusiasm knew no bounds.

Here they remained until the spring was past and summer came,
embellishing still more the beautiful woods around the little domain.
But they lingered yet in this pleasant place, loving it for the peace
it had given them, and the happiness they had learned to feel in being
together.

Leaning on her husband's arm, Pauline wandered amid the bright scenes
with a light step, now stopping to admire some variety of foliage, and
now pausing by the crystal stream that ran at the foot of the tall
trees, murmuring like a hidden sprite, and mirroring the waving
boughs, and the blue sky of _la belle France_. She had forgotten the
misery of her bridal-day, or remembered it but to contrast her present
quiet enjoyment of life with her then wretchedness. She had forgotten
her youth of terror, her husband's years and his coldness, and now,
when she looked upon the silver hair that glittered beside her braids
of jet, a feeling of gratitude filled her heart, as she recalled th