rang, was conveyed to Brussels. There, it
was tenderly laid down in hospital: and there
it lay, week after week, through the long
bright summer days, until the harvest,
spared by war, had ripened and was
gathered in.

Over and over again, the sun rose and set
upon the crowded city; over and over again,
the moonlight nights were quiet on the
plains of Waterloo; and all that time was a
blank to what had been Lieutenant Richard
Doubledick. Rejoicing troops marched into
Brussels, and marched out; brothers and
fathers, sisters, mothers, and wives, came
thronging thither, drew their lots of joy or
agony, and departed; so many times a day,
the bells rang; so many times, the shadows of
the great buildings changed; so many lights
sprang up at dusk; so many feet passed here
and there upon the pavements; so many
hours of sleep and cooler air of night
succeeded; indifferent to all, a marble face
lay on a bed, like the face of a recumbent
statue on the tomb of Lieutenant Richard
Doubledick.

Slowly laboring, at last, through a longheavy
dream of confused time and place, presenting
faint glimpses of army surgeons whom
he knew, and of faces that had been familiar
to his youth—dearest and kindest among
them, Mary Marshall's, with a solicitude
upon it more like reality than anything he
could discern—Lieutenant Richard Doubledick
came back to life. To the beautiful life
of a calm autumn-evening sunset. To the
peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with a
large window standing open; a balcony
beyond, in which were moving leaves and
sweet-smelling flowers; beyond again, the
clear sky, with the sun full in his sight,
pouring its golden radiance on his bed.

It was so tranquil and so lovely, that he
thought he had passed into another world.
And he said in a faint voice, " Taunton, are
you near me?"

A face bent over him. Not his; his
mother's.

"I came to nurse you. We have nursed
you, many weeks. You were moved here, long
ago. Do you remember nothing?"

"Nothing."

The lady kissed his cheek, and held his
hand, soothing him.

"Where is the regiment? What has hap-
pened? Let me call you mother. What has
happened, mother?"

"A great victory, dear. The war is over,
and the regiment was the bravest in the
field."

His eyes kindled, his lips trembled, he
sobbed, and the tears ran down his face. He
was very weak: too weak to move his hand.

"Was it dark just now?" he asked presently.

"No."

"It was only dark to me? Something
passed away, like a black shadow. But, as it
went, and the sun—O the blessed sun, how
beautiful it is!—touched my face, I thought
I saw a light white cloud pass out at the
door. Was there nothing that went out?"

She shook her head, and, in a little while,
he fell asleep: she still holding his hand, and
soothing him,

From that time, he recovered. Slowly, for
he had been desperately wounded in the
head, and had been shot in the body; but,
making some little advance every day. When
he had gained sufficient strength to converse
as he lay in bed, he soon began to remark
that Mrs. Taunton always brought him back
to his own history. Then, he recalled his preserver's
dying words, and thought, " it comforts
her."

One day, he awoke out of a sleep, refreshed,
and asked her to read to him. But, the curtain
of the bed, softening the light, which
she always drew back when he awoke, that
she might see him from her table at the bedside
where she sat at work, was held un
drawn; and a woman's voice spoke, which was
not hers.

"Can you bear to see a stranger? " it said
softly. " Will you like to see a stranger?"

"Stranger! " he repeated. The voice awoke
old memories, before the days of Private
Richard Doubledick.

"A stranger now, but not a stranger once,"
it said in tones that thrilled him. " Richard,
dear Richard, lost through so many years, my
name"

He cried out her name, " Mary! " and she
held him in her arms, and his head lay on
her bosom.

"I am not breaking a rash vow, Richard.
These are not Mary Marshall's lips that
speak. I have another name."

She was married.

"I have another name, Richard. Did you
ever hear it?"

"Never!"

He looked into her face, so pensively
beautiful, and wondered at the smile upon it
through her tears.

"Think again, Richard. Are you sure you
never heard my altered name?"

"Never!"

"Don't move your head to look at me,
dear Richard. Let it lie here, while I tell
my story. I loved a generous, noble man; loved
him with my whole heart; loved him for years
and years; loved him faithfully, devotedly;
loved him with no hope of return; loved him,
knowing nothing of his highest qualities—not
even knowing that he was alive. He was a
brave soldier. He was honoured and beloved
by thousands of thousands, when the mother
of his dear friend found me, and showed me
that in all his triumphs he had never forgotten me.
He was wounded in a great battle.
He was brought, dying, here, into Brussels. I
came to watch and tend him, as I would have
joyfully gone, with such a purpose, to the
dreariest ends of the earth. When he knew