After living there some weeks, I looked upon myself as one of the household; and, soldier-like, began toying with the girls: the one who attracted my attention most was Augustine; she was a fine young woman, with light hair and fair complexion. Her manners were playful, yet gentle, and there was an air of innocence in her freedom, which showed her thoughts were untainted by that knowledge of the world, which restrains the levity of youth. Her disposition corresponded with her manners, frank, generous, and confiding; her sisters used to say she was of a most forgiving temper, yet of a firm and determined spirit, and they loved her with more than the love sisters generally bestow upon each other. I now, day after day, became more intimate with the family, and the fair Augustine, whether serious or jesting, was always my favourite. The courtship of a soldier may be somewhat rough; I used to steal a kiss now and then, which my pretty Augustine would check me for doing; yet so much goodness was there in her manner, that her reproof, rather than otherwise, tempted a repetition of the offence. To those who know the inconveniences to which soldiers are subjected in being billeted, it must appear I was now in clover; I certainly never shall forget the happy hours I then enjoyed. One day, it was I remember on a Saturday, I was ordered on duty to the head-quarters of our regiment, at a small village called Burloun, about two miles from Mouvres. Previously to my departure, the youngest sister Leucade told me Augustine was soon to be married, being engaged to a young Frenchman who lived our side of Cambray, and had formerly been a prisoner in England, jokingly adding, that he could speak a little English. It was customary for me to dine with the family every Sunday; and on my return off guard next day, as usual, I joined the domestic party. I noticed a stranger at table, who by his manner appeared the favoured suitor of Augustine. We had, however, scarcely been seated, when he gazed intently upon me, and suddenly starting up, seized me by the hand, and nearly bursting into tears, exclaimed, “Mon brave soldat, est-ce vous?” I immediately recognized in him the faithful Frenchman whose life I had spared in the streets of Badajoz before mentioned. Returning to his seat, he described to the party the scenes we had gone through at Badajoz, which sometimes called forth fits of laughter, and sometimes tears.