hought he could discern the dress of his beloved as she stole towards
him between the old trees.

A friendly touch on the shoulder recalled him rudely to the real world.
Four or five officers from "The Conquest" were standing around him, gay,
and free from cares, a hearty laugh on their lips.

"Well, my dear Champcey," they said, "are you coming?"

"Where?"

"Why, to dinner!"

And as he looked at them with the air of a man who had just been roused,
and has not had time to collect his thoughts, they went on,--

"Well, to dinner. It appears Saigon possesses an admirable French
restaurant, where the cook, a Parisian, is simply a great artist. Come,
get up, and let us go."

But Daniel was in a humor which made solitude irresistibly attractive.
He trembled at the idea of being torn from his melancholy reveries, of
being compelled to take his part in conversation, to talk, to listen, to
reply.

"I cannot dine with you to-day, my friends," he said to his comrades.

"You are joking."

"No, I am not. I must return on board." Then only, the others were
struck by the sad expression of his face; and, changing their tone, they
asked him in the most affectionate manner,--

"What is the matter, Champcey? Have you heard of any misfortune, any
death?"

"No."

"You have had letters from France, I see."

"They bring me nothing sad. I was expecting news, and they have not
come; that is all."

"Oh! then you must come with us."

"Do not force me; I would be a sorry companion."

Still they insisted, as friends will insist who will not understand that
others may not be equally tempted by what charms them; but nothing could
induce Daniel to change his mind. At the door of the government house he
parted with his comrades, and went back, sad and solitary, towards the
harbor.

He reached without difficulty the banks of the Dong-Nai; but here
obstacles presented themselves of which he had not thought. The night
was so dark, that he could hardly see to find his way along a wharf in
process of construction, and covered with enormous stones and timber.
Not a light in all the native huts around. In spite of his efforts to
pierce this darkness, he could discern nothing but the dark outline
of the vessels lying at anchor in the river, and the light of the
lighthouse as it trembled in the current.

He called. No voice replied. The silence, which was as deep as the
darkness, was broken only by the low wash of the river as it flowe