“I could,” said Louise, to the curé, “I could have sustained the blow better, had I perfect confidence in the strength of Adolph’s power of resistance. It is not my disappointment that makes me weep; if I know my heart, dear father, it is the apprehension for Adolph’s moral safety. He must be exposed to all the debasing influences of a great army, and to all the dangers of association with men who make a mockery of all that is holy in religion, and all that is decent in morals; and he must stand the taunts and jibes of some of those from whom he has recently been attracted. He will fall, assuredly.” “Let us pray for his endurance of the trial,” said the curé. “Let us find some one,” said Louise, “that will assist to sustain his resolution of good, that will watch over him, and admonish him of his dangers.” “Who shall do that,” said Father Rudolph, “but who e’er it may be, he turneth a sinner from his ways, and hideth a multitude of sins. It is a blessed office.” “Father,” said Madam Berien, “are there now no chaplains in the army?” “Alas, my child!” said the venerable curé, “war is not carried on now with that formality and parade which once distinguished it. The rapid movements of the troops give but little chance for religious impressions, and the morals of a camp seem to preclude the hope of any demand for clerical aid.” “How few of our army escape death or incurable wounds!” said madam. “Alas!” said Louise, “it is the camp more than the field that I dread; death or wounds are less injurious than the decayed morals.” There was trouble in the family of Madam Berien, trouble in the heart of Adolph. He was too young, too much a Frenchman of the time, to express an open regret at joining the army, and so he mourned his separation from Louise, and the disappointment of his marriage hopes, secretly. He dreaded the dangers of the association. He had really improved; he had begun to love virtue as he loved Louise; and he feared the consequence of the want of her influence in the cause of his improvement. The night before the departure of the few conscripts which were to leave the village, was spent by Adolph at Madam Berien’s; the curé was present most of the time. In the morning the busy movement in the place denoted that all were ready. Louise had only one word of farewell, one kiss to give, and her part was accomplished—and her heart sunk within her as she placed upon Adolph’s neck a little medal, which she carefully hid beneath his dress. The ferry-boat that crosses the river some distance above the village, received the conscripts, and many of their friends, who would accompany them to the rendezvous beyond the river.