one of those hopeful anticipations she had
longed for the hour of quietness to enjoy—
not one of her former bright visions of the
future would come at her call, she grew
fearful and superstitious, and waking or
sleeping was pursued by a phantom dread—
a dread she would not have clothed in words
for empires—a shapeless dread that was
withering her life, only to be guessed at by
the sudden alteration in her looks. She
grew pale and thin, and there came a stare in
her sweet eyes, and an impatient hard sound
in her voice.

The French are a kindly race, and the
sympathies of all who knew Coralie were
soon in full play. Heaven knows how every
one was so well informed; but the milk-
woman who brought the morning sous of
milk let fall a drop or two over the measure,
with a smiling "Courage, mademoiselle, le bon
temps viendra." The concierge and his wife
were ready to lay violent hands on the post-
man's giberne; the shoeblack at the corner
of the street made daily inquiries; and as for
the épicier and his spouse, M. and Madame
Bonnenuit, they could talk of nothing in
their conjugal tête-à-têtes but Madlle. Coralie
and her officier fiancé. They perseveringly
studied a mutilated weathercock, which had
long given up service, and by which they
always predicted a fair wind from Algiers.

When Eugene's return might be expected
any day. or even any hour, Coralie begged
for a holiday—all occupation had, indeed,
become impossible to her. The parents of
her little flock were enthusiastically unanimous
in their consent:—"Mais oui, mais oui,
ma pauvre demoiselle; allons done, ma chère
bonne demoiselle; du courage, ça va finir
bientôt, le bon temps viendra."

"Le bon temps viendra! " repeated Coralie,
and this strong, lively girl would sit whole
hours motionless, or move only to look at the
hands of the pendule.

At last, one Sunday morning, Coralie
awoke with an unusual feeling of cheerfulness;
it was early spring, and a bright sun
was shining merrily into the room, in defiance
of her snow-white curtains—some caged lark
near was singing his pretty matins—and, as
Coralie opened her window, a soft air wooed
her heated cheek. A few warm tears gathered
in her eyes, her heart throbbed tempestuously,
and then she felt a presentiment, she
would scarcely own it to herself, that he
would come that day. First, Coralie prayed,
as she had not prayed for weeks—poor soul,
was she trying to bribe Heaven? Then she
dressed herself in her pretty new blue muslin,
her hand shaking so she could scarcely fix
the buckle of her band, she smoothed and
smoothed her hair till it shone like satin,
laced on her new brodequins, and finally
drew forth a pair of cuffs and a collar she
had embroidered and laid by in sweet anticipation
of Eugene's return. " They will grow
quite yellow," soliloquised she, dissembling
her own motive, "if I let them lie longer in
the drawer," and with sudden resolution she
put them on. And then why— then, she
knew not what to do with the long day, and
sat down on her sofa in restless, yet happy,
listlessness.

About noon, there was a man's step on the
stair—Coralie was not startled, not astonished,
she had known it would be so, only she
panted hard as it came nearer, and at last
stopped at her door. She rose, but had no
power to walk— a low tap—"Entrez," she
said, in a soft voice, with her hand outstretched
as if she would have lifted the latch herself.
A uniform appeared—Coralie sprang
forward, and met a stranger—"Eugene, where
is he?" cried the bewildered girl, retreating,
and her eyes turning from the intruder
strained, as if seeking some one following
in his rear.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," answered the
visitor, "I have come by his wish. You,
perhaps, know my name—Jean Rivarol—I
was Eugene's comrade for many years."

"He has often written to me of you,"
returned she; "but you have expected to find
him too soon—he is not yet come but he
will soon be here."

The young man leaned his hand on the
back of a chair, turned a strange look at the
excited speaker, and then cast his eyes on
the ground.

"In truth," continued Coralie, "I thought
it was him when you entered; and so," she
added, after a moment's pause, with a sweet
smile, "to speak truly, the sight of you was a
disappointment, and I was, perhaps, ungracious
to Eugene's best friend—forgive me!
Think, I have been waiting for this day five
years—five weary years!"

These last few words broke forth with a
burst of long pent-up feeling. Then with
more composure she asked,—

"Where did you leave him?"

To this direct question Bivarol, who was
still standing in the middle of the room,
murmured something like "on the road."

"He will be here to-day, then?"

"Not to-day, I think—I suppose—that is—
as as he is not here yet."

"To-morrow?" persisted Coralie; "morning
or evening, do you think?"

"I cannot tell," said Jean, evidently
embarrassed, and looking very pale. "Pardon,
mademoiselle, my intrusion, I will take my
leave."

Coralie thought he was hurt by the
ungraciousness of her first reception.

"Nay," said she, gracefully, "you must
look on this as Eugene's home. It will be
his—our's, in a few days and his friends
will always be welcome. See," she went on,
"there stands his arm-chair, I worked the
cover myself, and, to tell you a secret, those
slippers, and that smoking-cap are for him.
While he, poor fellow, has been going through
toil and danger, it would have been too bad