before. Then the old inquiry and old visiting
of a decayed pigeon-hole, and bringing out of
the faded yellow bundle; careful deciphering
of the inscriptions seriatim, with gathering of
them up again, and regrets that Monsieur's
packet had not arrived. Would come by next
mail, he was sure. Which tedious little act
was played out with such shrugging, and
bows, and smiles, that I could not but take my
part in it patiently, and minister to the old
Brave's weakness. For who was there in that
place beyond myself to come to the Bureau
and ask for expected letters?

Six, seven, and eight days, and no Paris
despatch. I began to grow desperate. I
was eating my heart up, and dashing myself
against the bars of an iron cage, pining for
deliverance. I began to loathe every man,
woman, and child, and twig, about the place.
It was now grown quite a blank solitude; for
even my good curé had left, and was gone one
of his rounds. Of nights, strange and horrible
roarings could be heard up the mountains,
results of sharp blasts sweeping across
hollows, which might have been taken for
goblins playing at ghostly nine-pins. I might
as well have been upon a desert island, like
Crusoe and other shipwrecked men, and was
gloomily figuring to myself how I, too, might
set up a post, with the date of my coming
marked, and set to at once notching it with a
penknife for the days. There were signs, also,
that, up the blue mountains, more terrible
storms were gathering, and indistinct rumour
had reached the village of a river having
swelled up suddenly many miles away, and of
consequent wreck and desolation.

One Sunday evening, when I was leaning
on my hands looking out at the cold
blueness over the mountains, and thinking
it was like enough that I should go melancholy
mad, there suddenly appeared at the
door a little man, in a blue frock and brass-
bound sabots, and a red comforter about his
neck. He stood staring in the door-way,
rolling his eye stupidly, much as all his
brethren had the habit of doing, but without
attempting to speak.

"Well!" said I, turning away gloomily
from the cold blue, "well, friend, what
is it?"

He was Jacquot, he said.

Well, what could be done for Jacquot?

"Nothing. Only he had come down from
Barbou's, who had called him in as he was
passing, and given him a sou, and bade him
run quickly, tell the Monsieur who was
staying at the Golden Monkey—"tell him,"
said the little man, beginning to count on his
fingers, "firstly, that a packet had just
arrived, and that——"

  I started up—it had come at last—
"Where! when!" I said, "quick—give it
me!"

  "And," said Jacquot, still at his fingers,
"secondly, I was to tell Monsieur—" I must
at this moment have sprung at Jacquot;
for that little man took from his breast a
small parcel, and disappeared instantly.

I opened it with trembling fingers, by the
light of the fire, and out of the cover there
dropped two letters; one with the Paris
postmark—plainly from the banker there with
supplies; the other English, but not from
Little Constancy. Most curious this; for
write, write, had been our last words,
solemnly covenanted and sworn. Not from
Little Constancy, but from my English man
of business, and dated two days before:

"Dear Sir," said the letter, "Not having received
advice of my last communication, I feel I should be
wanting in duty if I did not urge your immediate
return. I will not conceal from you that the physician
pronounces Mrs. Sherburne's case to be almost
hopeless. At twelve o'clock this day there was a slight
change for the better; but such fluctuations, as I am
advised, are but imperfect indices of restoration. Your
presence would be of much profit, as much I fear of
Mrs. Sherburne's illness must be set down to an untrue
rumour of the ship's being lost. Direct to Paris. Care
of Messrs. Fauchon & Cie. Trusting that by this time
you will be so far on your road home. Remain, dear
sir, yours, &c."

A cruel, crushing, undreamt of blow for the
lonely traveller bending over the fire in the
bleak inn,—not too bleak, however,—fittest
place for him and in excellent keeping. My
heart seemed to have withered up suddenly.
I felt a craving to go forth to get lost in
that cold blue mist up the mountains, and be
never heard of more. For my pearl of great
price, my Little Constancy, was gone,—taken
from me.

No! not yet, thank Heaven! and my eyes
fell upon that other letter lying across the
fender. Money could do much: speed could
do much: stern will and action could do
much to shorten the road. Action, then,
with desperate purpose. That seasonable
packet would bear me over mountains, and
river, and ocean, and hundred obstacles. With
which war-cry, as it were, of Action!—Action!
ringing in my ears, I was in an instant
hurrying down to Barbou's. I told him my case
in a few hasty words. He entered into
it at once, like a true soldier of the
empire. All his old tricks, his bows and
shrugs, his flowered dressing-gown, he put
from him in an instant. He, too, had the
war-cry—Action!

"No time to lose," said he, "I am proud
to help a bold man and brave husband.
Give me two minutes to think, without a
word."

During those two minutes he looked into
a little book many times, and wrote certain
figures; then, tapping his forehead, said, "Je
le tiens. I have it. Listen!"

If we can meet the great diligence which
passes by Bourdeaux at three o'clock in the
morning, all is saved. Forty miles before
midnight, will do it. One hour for sleep, if
you can, and two hours more in the malle-
poste; but it must be headlong speed—ventre