At this moment we heard a knock at the door of the cottage, where we were all four seated round the fire.  “It is Louise, poor girl!” cried Madeleine, rising:  “she told me she would come;” and she opened the door to give admittance to two women.  The first was a tall, neatly-dressed, middle-aged woman:  the second, her daughter, was a young, slight, fair-haired girl of twenty.  She was not pretty, but her features wore a look of honesty and candor which gave a bright and pleasing expression to her face, and one could see at a glance that although poor and possibly untaught, that part of her education had not been neglected which was to render her a good and virtuous woman.  I was not long in finding out that she was the betrothed of Henri Derblay, and I could not wonder that the poor lad should grieve at the prospect of losing her.

Casting her eyes timidly around for her lover, she blushed as she entered upon seeing a stranger, and passing by me with a little curtsey went to greet Francois and his wife.

“God bless you, dear child!” cried Madeleine, caressing her:  “we are in sad need of your bright, sunny face to cheer us;” and she led the young girl toward Henri, who, leaning against the chimney, was affecting a composure strangely at variance with the trembling of his limbs and the violent quivering of his upper lip.

Louise walked up to him, and seeming to forget my presence innocently held up her forehead for him to kiss.  “Tu as du chagrin, mon pauvre ami?” she said in tones of exquisite delicacy and tenderness, and took one of his hands in hers.

A few minutes after I rose to take my leave:  Francois accompanied me to the door.  “I think, sir,” he said hesitatingly, “you might perhaps bring good-luck to our poor boy by going to-morrow to see the conscription.  Would you do us the favor of joining us?  We shall all be at St. Valery.”

“Certainly,” I replied, shaking his hand, and starting off with my heart so full that the league’s walk from the cottage to my lodgings filled up one of the saddest hours I have ever spent.

I passed a dull night:  how indeed could I do otherwise?  And I am sure that I never so sincerely lamented the want of wealth as upon that occasion, when a thousand francs might have given me the joy of making four people happy.

The next day, the twentieth of February, dawned brightly—­so brightly indeed that I began to draw from the smiling appearance of the heavens a good augury for the luck of Henri Derblay.  It was about eight when I set out.  The conscription was to begin at nine, but already the one straggling, narrow street which bisects the old bathing-town was filled with country-people hastening in groups or singly toward the market-place, where the town-hall was situated.  The scene presented here was of a most animated kind.  The market had some time since begun, and in and out amongst the stalls of the sellers moved a crowd of people of all