"You have not heard?"

"No."

"At the fire. But he was so brave, so ready.
Ah, too brave, too ready!"

"May the devil carry you away," the
Englishman broke in impatiently; "I beg your
pardon—I mean me—I am not accustomed to speak
French—go on, will you!"

"And a falling beam——"

"Good God!" exclaimed the Englishman.
"It was a private soldier who was killed?"

"No. A Corporal, the same Corporal, our
dear Corporal. Beloved by all his comrades.
The funeral ceremony was touching— penetrating.
Monsieur The Englishman, your eyes fill
with tears."

"What bu—si——"

"Monsieur The Englishman, I honour those
emotions. I salute you with profound respect.
I will not obtrude myself upon your noble heart."

Monsieur Mutuel, a gentleman in every thread
of his cloudy linen, under whose wrinkled hand
every grain in the quarter of an ounce of poor
snuff in his poor little tin box became a gentleman's
property,—Monsieur Mutuel passed on
with his cap in his hand.

"I little thought," said the Englishman, after
walking for several minutes, and more than once
blowing his nose, "when I was looking round
that Cemetery,—I'll go there!"

Straight he went there, and when he came
within the gate he paused, considering whether
he should ask at the lodge for some direction to
the grave. But he was less than ever in a mood
for asking questions, and he thought, "I shall
see something on it, to know it by."

In search of the Corporal's grave, he went
softly on, up this walk and down that, peering in
among the crosses and hearts and columns and
obelisks and tombstones for a recently
disturbed spot. It troubled him now, to think
how many dead there were in the cemetery—he
had not thought them a tenth part so numerous
before—and, after he had walked and sought for
some time, he said to himself as he struck down
a new vista of tombs, "I might suppose that
every one was dead but I."

Not every one. A live child was lying on
the ground asleep. Truly he had found something
on the Corporal's grave to know it by, and
the something was Bebelle.

With such a loving will had the dead soldier's
comrades worked at his resting-place, that it
was already a neat garden. On the green turf
of the garden, Bebelle lay sleeping, with her
cheek touching it. A plain unpainted little
wooden Cross was planted in the turf, and her
short arm embraced this little Cross, as it had
many a time embraced the Corporal's neck.
They had put a tiny flag (the flag of France) at
his head, and a laurel garland.

Mr. The Englishman took off his hat, and
stood for a while silent. Then, covering his
head again, he bent down on one knee, and
softly roused the child.

"Bebelle! My little one!"

Opening her eyes, on which the tears were
still wet, Bebelle was at first frightened; but
seeing who it was, she suffered him to take her
in his arms, looking steadfastly at him.

"You must not lie here my little one. You
must come with me."

"No, no. I can't leave Théophile. I want
the good dear Théophile."

"We will go and seek him, Bebelle. We
will go and look for him in England. We will
go and look for him at my daughter's, Bebelle."

"Shall we find him there?"

"We shall find the best part of him there.
Come with me, poor forlorn little one. Heaven
is my witness," said the Englishman, in a low
voice, as, before he rose, he touched the turf
above the gentle Corporal's breast, "that I
thankfully accept this trust!"

It was a long way for the child to have come
unaided. She was soon asleep again, with her
embrace transferred to the Englishman's neck.
He looked at her worn shoes, and her galled
feet, and her tired face, and believed that she
had come there every day.

He was leaving the grave with the slumbering
Bebelle in his arms, when he stopped, looked
wistfully down at it, and looked wistfully at the
other graves around. "It is the innocent custom
of the people," said Mr. The Englishman, with
hesitation, "I think I should like to do it. No
one sees."

Careful not to wake Bebelle as he went, he
repaired to the lodge where such little tokens
of remembrance were sold, and bought two
wreaths. One, blue and white and glistening
silver, "To my friend;" one of a soberer red and
black and yellow, "To my friend." With these
he went back to the grave, and so down on one
knee again. Touching the child's lips with the
brighter wreath, he guided her hand to hang it
on the Cross; then hung his own wreath there.
After all, the wreaths were not far out of keeping
with the little garden. To my friend. To my
friend.

Mr. The Englishman took it very ill when he
looked round a street-corner into the Great
Place, carrying Bebelle in his arms, that old
Mutuel should be there airing his red ribbon.
He took a world of pains to dodge the worthy
Mutuel, and devoted a surprising amount of
time and trouble to skulking into his own
lodging like a man pursued by Justice.
Safely arrived there at last, he made Bebelle's
toilette with as accurate a remembrance as he
could bring to bear upon that work, of the
way in which he had often seen the poor
Corporal make it, and, having given her to eat
and drink, laid her down on his own bed.
Then, he slipped out into the barber's shop,
and after a brief interview with the barber's
wife and a brief recourse to his purse and
card-case, came back again, with the whole of
Bebelle's personal property in such a very little
bundle that it was quite lost under his arm.

As it was irreconcilable with his whole
course and character that he should carry
Bebelle off in state, or receive any compliments
or congratulations on that feat, he devoted the