eemed to give color to the illusion that you
were really walking in an open alley. Colored Chinese balloons attached
to fine chains, fell from the ceiling, and seemed to float like gay
butterflies between the trees and flowers. They threw their soft, faint,
many-colored lights through these enchanting halls, on each side of
which little grottoes had been formed by twining together myrtles,
palms, and fragrant bushes. Each one of these held a little grass-plot,
or green divan, and these were so arranged that the branches of the
palms were bent down over the seats, and concealed those who rested
there behind a leafy screen.

To one of these grottoes Louise now led her husband. "We will rest here
awhile," said she. "This grotto has one advantage--it lies at the corner
of the wall and has but one open side, and leafy bushes are thickly
grouped about it. We have no listeners to fear, and may chat
together frankly and harmlessly. And now, first of all, welcome, my
husband--welcome to your home!"

"God be thanked, Louise--God be thanked that you have at last known how
to speak one earnest word, and welcome me to your side! Believe me, when
I say that through all these weary years, each day I have rejoiced
at the thought of this moment. It has been my refreshment and my
consolation. I truly believe that the thought of you and my ardent
desire to see you was a talisman which kept death afar off. It seemed
to me impossible to die without seeing you once more. I had a firm
conviction that I would live through the war and return to you. Thus
I defied the balls of the enemy, and have returned to repose on your
heart, my beloved wife--after the storms and hardships of battle to fold
you fondly in my arms and never again to leave you." He threw his arms
around her waist, and pressed his lips with a tender kiss upon her
mouth.

Louise suffered this display of tenderness for one moment, then slipped
lightly under his arms and retreated a few steps.

"Do you know," said she, with a low laugh, "that was a true, respectable
husband's kiss; without energy and without fire; not too cold, not too
warm--the tepid, lukewarm tenderness of a husband who really loves his
wife, and might be infatuated about her, if she had not the misfortune
to be his wife?"

"Ah! you are still the old Louise," said the major merrily; "still the
gay, coquettish, unsteady butterfly, who, with its bright, variegated
wings, knows how to escape, even when fairly