present when past times of deathly suffering
and terror were referred to, without betraying
the shock in her face and manner. Trudaine
looked saddened, but in no way surprised
by what he saw. Making a sign to
Lomaque to say nothing, he rose and took up
his sister's hood, which lay on a window-
seat near him.

"Come, Rose," he said, "the sun is shining,
the sweet spring air is inviting us out. Let
us have a quiet stroll along the banks of
the stream. Why should we keep our good
friend here, cooped up in this narrow little
room, when we have miles and miles of beautiful
landscape to show him on the other side
of the threshold? Come! it is high treason
to Queen Nature to remain indoors on such
a morning as this."

Without waiting for her to reply, he put
on her hood, drew her arm through his, and
led the way out. Lomaque's face grew grave
as he followed them.

"I am glad I only showed the bright side of
my budget of news in her presence," thought
he. "She is not well at heart yet. I might
have hurt her, poor thing! I might have
hurt her again, sadly, if I had not held my
tongue!"

They walked for a little while down the
banks of the stream, talking of indifferent
matters; then returned to the cottage. By
that time Rose had recovered her spirits, and
could listen with interest and amusement to
Lomaque's drily-humourous description of
his life as a clerk at Chalons-sur-Marne. They
parted for a little while at the cottage-door.
Rose retired to the up-stairs room from which
she had been summoned by her brother.
Trudaine and Lomaque returned to wander
again along the banks of the stream.

With one accord, and without a word passing
between them, they left the neighbourhood
of the cottage hurriedly; then stopped
on a sudden, and attentively looked each
other in the face—looked in silence for an
instant. Trudaine spoke first.

"I thank you for having spared her." he
began, abruptly. "She is not strong enough,
yet, to bear hearing of a new misfortune,
unless I break the tidings to her first."
"You suspect me then of bringing bad
news?" said Lomaque.

"I know you do. When I saw your first look
at her, after we were all seated in the cottage-
parlour, I knew it. Speak! without fear,
without caution, without one useless word of
preface. After three years of repose, if it
pleases God to afflict us again, I can bear the
trial calmly; and, if need be, can strengthen
her to bear it calmly too. I say again, Lomaque,
speak at once, and speak out! I
know your news is bad, for I know
beforehand that it is news of Danville."

"You are right, my bad news is news of
him."

"He has discovered the secret of our
escape from the guillotine—?"

"No—he has not a suspicion of it. He
believes—as his mother, as every one does—
that you were both executed the day after
the Revolutionary Tribunal sentenced you to
death."

"Lomaque! you speak positively of that
belief of his—but you cannot be certain of it."

"I can, on the most indisputable, the most
startling evidence—on the authority of
Danville's own act. You have asked me to speak
out?"

"I ask you again—I insist on it! Your
news, Lomaque—your news, without another
word of preface!"

"You shall have it without another word of
preface. Danville is on the point of being
married."

As the answer was given they both stopped
by the bank of the stream, and again looked
each other in the lace. There was a minute
of dead silence between them. During that
minute, the water bubbling by happily over
its bed of pebbles, seemed strangely loud, the
singing of birds in a little wood by the stream
side strangely near and shrill, in both their
ears. The light breeze, for all its mid-day
warmth, touched their cheeks coldly; and the
spring sunlight pouring on their faces, felt as
if it were glimmering on them through
winter-clouds.

"Let us walk on," said Trudaine, in a low
voice. "I was prepared for bad news, yet not
for that. Are you certain of what you have
just told me?"

"As certain as that the stream here is flowing
by our side. Hear how I made the discovery,
and you will doubt no longer. Before
last week, I knew nothing of Danville, except
that his arrest on suspicion by Robespierre's
order, was, as events turned out, the saving
of his life. He was imprisoned, as I told you,
on the evening after he had heard your names
read from the death-list at the prison-grate.
He remained in confinement at the Temple,
unnoticed in the political confusion out of
doors, just as you remained unnoticed at St.
Lazare; and he profited, precisely in the same
manner that you profited by the timely
insurrection which overthrew the Reign of Terror.
I knew this, and I knew that he walked out
of prison in the character of a persecuted
victim of Robespierre's—and for better than
three years past, I knew no more. Now
listen. Last week I happened to be waiting
in the shop of my employer, citizen Clairfait,
for some papers to take into the counting-
house, when an old man enters with a sealed
parcel, which he hands to one of the shopmen,
saying:

"'Give that to citizen Clairfait.'

"'Any name?' says the shopman.

"'The name is of no consequence,' answers
the old man; 'but if you please you can give
mine. Say the parcel came from citizen
Dubois;' and then he goes out. His name
in connection with his elderly look, strikes me
directly.