Lionel ought to be informed of what had happened, and it was with a feeling of relief that the thought struck her, that in his last letter Sir Lionel had said that his address in future would be uncertain, and that all she could do was to tell Dr. Coleridge that she was unable to furnish the required information. Rising and looking round her as if about to prepare for her journey, she asked Helen if Madame were making the necessary preparations, and on learning that she did not acquiesce in her proposal to return home, looked as if driven to despair. It seemed impossible to her to remain imprisoned at St. Jullien's while such great events were transacting at home; and when Madame came in to condole with and to converse with her on the subject of the proposed journey, saying that she was not at liberty to act in the matter without a command from Sir Lionel, that she could not for a moment entertain the thought of her travelling to England with only Alsie for an escort: she looked at first desperate, then resolute; then, as the fact of her impotency to act alone pressed itself upon her, despairing and hopeless. She was reluctantly obliged to submit until some one from home came to rescue her from her isolated and helpless position. The possibility never occurred to her that her aunt would be put away from her sight without her ever seeing her again. Helen followed Madame to the door, and remarked upon the sadness of the circumstances in which May was placed, upon which that lady agreed that it was sad, very sad indeed, but that such things had been going on since the time of Adam.

'Do not let her come in again,' pleaded May, who had overheard the remark; 'I can't bear to see those weary white gloves folded before me.'

Madame always wore white gloves when she had an interview with her pupils.

Here Frances made her appearance, and her sweet sympathizing face met with a warm reception.

She was so very good!' she whispered, by way of comfort. May kissed her, and asked if any one had told Alsie.

Helen said that she had told her, and that she was very much affected-that she was going to bring tea to them into her room.

May buried her face in the sofa-pillow. It seemed to her that she should never want tea any more; and when Alsie appeared with the tray, her eyes red with weeping, the sight of ber caused her tears to flow more freely than they had yet done. After Alsie left the room, May went to the alcove in which her bed was placed, and lay down on it, she felt so very sad, as if she must screen herself from view. Helen felt that the kindest thing to do would be to allow her to weep unrestrainedly; and she and Frances sat quietly plying their occupations until she grew more calm; then Helen reminded her that she had a note to write, at the same time supplying her with writing materials.

Seating herself at the table, she did what was necessary, and begged that some one would at once come and take her to England, forgetting, in her grief, poor child! that there was no one at Scotswood who would feel authorized to send a messenger for her.

After she had closed the note, Helen advised her to lie down again for awhile. Her quiet unobtrusive sympathy was just such as was acceptable to May, and when she had followed her advice, Frances showed her tender thoughtfulness for her comfort by shading the light from her face, and performing such little services as were calculated to relieve without troubling her.

The next morning when May awoke to fresh consciousness of her grief, she found Frances sitting by her bed-side.

'We thought you might feel lonely when you awoke,' explained the little gentle voice; 'Helen said if I would be sure not to disturb you I might come and sit here.' And she nestled her head close to that of her friend, and kissed her ; then, after listening sympathizingly to May's speculations as to when it was likely she would reach Scotswood, said, by way of an antidote to her sorrow, 'Dr. Milman called for a minute last night, and he was so very sorry for you; but he said something about it being well for us when we could believe that "all God's arrows are pointed with love."'

'What a pretty idea!' said May. 'I think I should like him.'

'Don't you know whose thought it was?' asked Frances. 'John Bunyan's!'

'The Bedfordshire tinker?' exclaimed May.

Frances assented, and remarked that he was such a good man, that all his ideas became elevated, and made him quite another being from his original self, and that no one would remember his handicraft while reading his thoughts, religion had so refined him.

CHAPTER XVII.

'Ah, quel plaisir d'être soldat,

Et gaiement on s'elans de l'amour ou combat,
Ah, quel plaisir, ah, quel plaisir d'être soldat!'

HE scene is a camp.

velopes it, and the

A grey robe of rain-cloud engeneral aspect of things is sad

and sombre in the extreme.

Within one of the many weatherbeaten tents that stud the ground, sits Reginald Bosanquet, his nerves irritated by the monotonous flap! flap! of the sodden canvas, which has long ceased to be a protection from the weather; his countenance expressing in a painful degree the exhaustion and suffering to which he has been subjected. He is by no means deficient either in moral or physical courage, but, with both at command, he has not been able to cope successfully with the agglomerated miseries by which he is surrounded.

A severe attack of fever has prostrated him thus, and the heavy atmosphere, laden as it is with seething vapour of the impurest kind, is anything but stimulating in its effect on his weakened system.

'I've got something for my trouble at last,' said a bright and cheery voice-a voice so pleasant as to suggest what was really the case-its belonging to our old friend Vero, who, improvising

A LETTER AT THE CAMP.

225 a seat, began to display his acquisitions, among which was a letter for Captain Bosanquet.

'There is a rare lot of humbug going on,' he said, confidentially. At such a pinch as this the men should not be sent back under childish pretexts. I am the last to quarrel with system, so long as it subserves a right purpose, but with the men all but starving, such a state of things ought not to be.'

Reginald was engrossed with his letter, and did not reply; and Vero, seeing him look interested, said,

'I begin to wish I had secured some sweet spirit to sing my death dirge, in case I should become food for the crows.'

Reginald looked up, and made some remark as to his sister being a capital correspondent.

Vero expressed his astonishment at finding he had a sister, and said that he believed he had entertained some vague notion that, Melchizedek-like, he was without descent, at the same time confessing to a little curiosity as to the sender of those stylish epistles.

The fact of his sister's adoption had always been a sore point with Reginald, and he continued to peruse his letter, as if anxious to put a stop to the conversation.

Vero turned on his heel, and was about leaving the tent, fearing he had seemed inquisitive, when Reginald, detecting his motive, said, musingly,

'This ought to have come to hand long ago. I've no doubt there are others awaiting me somewhere. They seem to do anything to create trouble and delay. My correspondent says she has written regularly. My silence as to my sister has probably arisen from the fact of our having always been separated. She has lived in the south of England, and I in the north.