on
openly asked or answered. If the narrator should be asked, Why this
reticence?--he might not be able to explain the restraint which holds
his hand. They love each other dearly--so dearly that the blotting out
of one from existence would be leaving that existence a blank to the
other, for so many weary months and years that the very heart would grow
sick at contemplating the long expanse of bereavement yet to be
travelled over.

But they are not married? No. Months have passed over them, since each
knew each so thoroughly that often the one speaks the unbreathed thought
of the other; and yet they are not married. When will that marriage vow
be spoken? To-morrow? Next year? Never? Who knows, except God in heaven?
Perhaps there is something in this strange, wild, wayward love, between
two who may not dream of any reward beyond its existence, too sacred
even for its words to be recorded if they should fall upon the ear or
enter the mind of the romancer. Neither of them, perhaps, could attract
a love beside: neither of them might value another love, if it should
come at any call. Both of them will be Pariahs from the caste of hard
propriety, while the world lives or they exist. Both will chatter,
laugh, weep at times, fill unacknowledged places in the world, and weave
unreal romances of loving mischief in real life. And yet, married or
unmarried, they rest in each other--_rest_, in the truest and holiest
sense of that sacred word which almost encompasses heaven. Absent, they
will wish for each other: together, they will sometimes forget the
blessing that has been conferred, to remember it again some time through
sobs and kisses. And here let the record close.

No--let the record bear one more important suggestion. If they do marry,
for the protection of society let conspicuous labels be pinned on the
backs of their children: "Don't let these little people get into any
chance for mischief."

* * * * *

John Crawford, the Zouave, returned to New York within the succeeding
three days. Among the first of his researches in the city, was one as to
the state of the bank-account of Marion Hobart. The account was
closed--every dollar had been drawn, by check under her own hand, and
the fact gave only another proof that her abduction had been
accomplished without much violence, if not indeed with her own
connivance.

John Crawford rejoined the Advance Guard in October, and has since
shared in a