The veteran paused; then, pointing with his staff to the village of Mockern, he added:  “Yes, yes, I can recognize the spot.  Yonder are the heights where your brave father—­who commanded us, and the Poles of the Guard—­overthrew the Russian Cuirassiers, after having carried the battery.  Ah, my children!” continued the soldier, with the utmost simplicity, “I wish you had, seen your brave father, at the head of our brigade of horse, rushing on in a desperate charge in the thick of a shower of shells!—­There was nothing like it—­not a soul so grand as he!”

Whilst Dagobert thus expressed, in his own way, his regrets and recollections, the two orphans—­by a spontaneous movement, glided gently from the horse, and holding each other by the hand, went together to kneel at the foot of the old oak.  And there, closely pressed in each other’s arms, they began to weep; whilst the soldier, standing behind them, with his hands crossed on his long staff, rested his bald front upon it.

“Come, come you must not fret,” said he softly, when, after a pause of a few minutes, he saw tears run down the blooming cheeks of Rose and Blanche, still on their knees.  “Perhaps we may find General Simon in Paris,” added he; “I will explain all that to you this evening at the inn.  I purposely waited for this day, to tell you many things about your father; it was an idea of mine, because this day is a sort of anniversary.”

“We weep because we think also of our mother,” said Rose.

“Of our mother, whom we shall only see again in heaven,” added Blanche.

The soldier raised the orphans, took each by the hand, and gazing from one to the other with ineffable affection, rendered still the more touching by the contrast of his rude features, “You must not give way thus, my children,” said he; “it is true your mother was the best of women.  When she lived in Poland, they called her the Pearl of Warsaw—­it ought to have been the Pearl of the Whole World—­for in the whole world you could not have found her match.  No—­no!”

The voice of Dagobert faltered; he paused, and drew his long gray moustache between finger and thumb, as was his habit.  “Listen, my girls,” he resumed, when he had mastered his emotion; “your mother could give you none but the best advice, eh?”

“Yes Dagobert.”

“Well, what instructions did she give you before she died?  To think often of her, but without grieving?”

“It is true; she told us than our Father in heaven, always good to poor mothers whose children are left on earth, would permit her to hear us from above,” said Blanche.

“And that her eyes would be ever fixed upon us,” added Rose.

And the two, by a spontaneous impulse, replete with the most touching grace, joined hands, raised their innocent looks to heaven, and exclaimed, with that beautiful faith natural to their age:  “Is it not so, mother?—­thou seest us?—­thou hearest us?”