orphan?"

"Helene, I am your father's friend."

"My father! Is he alive?"

"Yes."

"Shall I ever see him?"

"Perhaps."

"Oh!" said Helene, pressing the stranger's hand, "I bless you for
bringing me this news."

"Dear child!" said he.

"But if he be alive," said Helene, "why has he not sought out his
child?"

"He had news of you every month; and though at a distance, watched over
you."

"And yet," said Helene, reproachfully, "he has not seen me for sixteen
years."

"Believe me, none but the most important reasons would have induced him
to deprive himself of this pleasure."

"I believe you, monsieur; it is not for me to accuse my father."

"No; it is for you to pardon him if he accuses himself."

"To pardon him!" cried Helene.

"Yes; and this pardon, which he cannot ask for himself, I ask in his
name."

"Monsieur," said Helene, "I do not understand you.'"

"Listen, then, and give me back your hand."

"Here it is."

"Your father was an officer in the king's service; at the battle of
Nerwinden, where he charged at the head of the king's household troops,
one of his followers, called M. de Chaverny, fell near him, pierced by a
ball. Your father wished to assist him, but the wound was mortal, and
the wounded man, who knew that it was so, said, 'Think not of me, but of
my child.' Your father pressed his hand as a promise, and the man fell
back and died, as though he only waited this assurance to close his
eyes. You are listening, are you not, Helene?"

"Oh! need you ask such a question?" said the young girl.

"At the end of the campaign, your father's first care was for the little
orphan. She was a charming child, of from ten to twelve years, who
promised to be as beautiful as you are. The death of M. de Chaverny, her
father, left her without support or fortune; your father placed her at
the convent of the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and announced that at a
proper age he should give her a dowry."

"I thank God," cried Helene, "for having made me the child of a man who
so nobly kept his promise."

"Wait, Helene," said the unknown, "for now comes the time when your
father will not receive your praises."

Helene was silent.

The unknown continued: "Your father, indeed, watched over the orphan
till her eighteenth year. She was an adorable young girl, and his visits
to the convent became longer and more frequent than they should have
been: your father began to love his protegee. At first he was frig