seven years old, dressed in a costume of the higher classes, but with nothing but her own beautiful curly hair upon her head, was crying bitterly. The woman—evidently a lady of some rank and station—shed no tears; but there was a look of wild, anxious terror, almost amounting to frenzy, on her face. The moment she beheld me she started back, dragging the child with her, and uttering a low scream. But an instant’s thought made her pause again; and she fixed her deep, inquiring eyes upon me when she saw that I was but a boy and alone. She was very beautiful, though very pale, and her face was in some way familiar to me. As I gazed at her with some surprise, and not untouched by the fear which she evidently felt herself, I saw that various parts of her dress were dyed and dabbled with blood. I had stopped when she stopped, and remained somewhat bewildered while she fixed upon me that earnest, penetrating look. Suddenly, some thought or remembrance seemed to strike her, and letting go the child’s hand, she darted forth and grasped my arm. “Are not you the boy whom I saw some months ago at Father Bonneville’s?” she asked in a low and hurried voice. “I live with him, madam,” I replied; “but what blood is that upon your dress?” “My husband’s,” replied the lady, in a tone so low, so icy, so full of deep despair that it seemed to freeze my very heart. “They have just murdered him before my very face, because he would not give them powder when he had none to give.” Then she put her hand to her head for a few moments, and the little girl, still weeping bitterly, crept up to her side, and took hold of her gown. “Here,” said the lady, disengaging the child’s hand and putting it in mine, “take her to Father Bonneville—tell him what has happened—beseech him to keep her in safety for two or three months. I will come and claim her if I live so long. If not, let him send her to England and think me dead. You will take care of her—you will be kind to her—you will guide her safely?” and she fixed her large, dark eyes full upon me, seeming to look into my soul. She had taken little notice of the child, who was now crying more bitterly than ever, and murmuring that she would not go. For my part, I promised all that she desired, but she hardly listened to me, exclaiming, almost immediately I began to speak— “Stay! she must have some means. Here, here,” and she took from her pocket two rolls of coin, wrapped up in paper as was much the custom in France in those days. One of these she gave to me, enveloped and sealed as it was. The other, she broke as one would break a stick, and I perceived it contained louis-d’ors, by one of them falling out upon the ground. I stooped to pick it up, but she said in the same hurried tone— “Never mind, never mind. Speed is worth all the gold in the world. Here, take this half and go.”