ce! Courage!"

Suddenly the wounded man had a terrible chill; his teeth chattered, and
he said again:

"I am thirsty!--something to drink, my friend!--give me something to
drink!"

A few swallows of tea calmed him a little. He closed his eyes as if to
rest, but a moment after he opened them, and, fixing them upon his
friend's face, he said to him in a faint voice:

"You know--Maria, my wife--marry her--I confide them to you--she and my
son--"

Then, doubtless tired out by the fatigue of having spoken these words, he
seemed to collapse and sink down into the litter, which was saturated now
with his blood. A moment later he began to pant for breath. Amedee knelt
by his side, and tears fell upon his hands, while between the dying man's
gasps he could hear in the distance, upon the battlefield, the
uninterrupted rumbling of the cannon as it mowed down others.

CHAPTER XVII

"WHEN YOUTH, THE DREAM, DEPARTS"

The leaves are falling!

This October afternoon is deliciously serene, there is not a cloud in the
grayish-blue sky, where the sun, which has shed a pure and steady light
since morning, has begun majestically to decline, like a good king who
has grown old after a long and prosperous reign. How soft the air is! How
calm and fresh! This is certainly one of the most beautiful of autumn
days. Below, in the valley, the river sparkles like liquid silver, and
the trees which crown the hill-tops are of a lurid gold and copper color.
The distant panorama of Paris is grand and charming, with all its noted
edifices and the dome of the Invalides shining like gold outlined upon
the horizon. As a loving and coquettish woman, who wishes to be
regretted, gives at the moment of departure her most intoxicating smile
to a friend, so the close of autumn had put on for one of her last days
all her splendid charms.

But the leaves are falling!

Amedee Violette is walking alone in his garden at Meudon. It is his
country home, where he has lived for eight years. A short time after the
close of the war he married Maurice's widow. He is walking upon the
terrace planted with lindens that are now more than half-despoiled of
their leaves, admiring the beautiful picture and thinking.

He is celebrated, he has worked hard and has built up a reputation by
good, sincere books, as a poet. Doubtless, some persons are still jealous
of him, and he is often treated with injustice, but he is estimated by
the dignity of his life, which hi