of Paradise
already. The winds will cleanse us."

We spoke no more; and at last the road turned to the east, down among
the trees, and we were traversing the square of Paradise village,
where white-capped women turned to look after us, and children stared
at us from their playground around the fountain, and the sleek magpies
fluttered out of our path as we galloped over the bridge and breasted
the sweet, strong moor wind, spicy with bay and gorse.

Speed flung out his arm, pointing. "The circus camp was there," he
said. "They have ploughed the clover under."

A moment later I saw the tower of Trecourt, touched with a ray of
sunshine, and the sea beyond, glittering under a clearing sky.

As we dismounted in the court-yard the sun flashed out from the
fringes of a huge, snowy cloud.

"There is Jacqueline!" cried Speed, tossing his bridle to me in his
excitement, and left me planted there until a servant came from the
stable.

Then I followed, every nerve quivering, almost dreading to set foot
within, lest happiness awake me and I find myself in the freezing
barracks once more, my brief dream ended.

In the hallway a curious blindness came over me. I heard Jacqueline
call my name, and I felt her hands in mine, but scarcely saw her; then
she slipped away from me, and I found myself seated in the little
tea-room, listening to the dull, double beat of my own heart,
trembling at distant sounds in the house--waiting, endlessly waiting.

After a while a glimmer of common-sense returned to me. I squared my
shoulders and breathed deeply, then rose and walked to the window.

The twigs on the peach-trees had turned wine-color; around the roots
of the larkspurs delicate little palmated leaves clustered; crocus
spikes pricked the grass everywhere, and the tall, polished shoots of
the peonies glistened, glowing crimson in the sun. A heavy cat sunned
its sleek flanks on the wall, brilliant eyes half closed, tail tucked
under. Ange Pitou had grown very fat in three months.

A step at the door, and I wheeled, trembling. But it was only a Breton
maid, who bore some letters on a salver of silver.

"For me?" I asked.

"If you please," she said, demurely.

Two letters, and I knew the writing on one. The first I read
standing:

"Buffalo, N. Y., Feb. 3, 1871.

"Mr. Scarlett, Dear Sir and Friend,--Trusting you're
well I am pleased to admit the same, the blind Goddess
having smile