“I do not see what else I can do, unless you would get me a place as governess somewhere at the ends of the earth,” she said. “I could teach children their letters. I should not mind doing anything. I never should complain. Ah! if you lived all by yourself, Giselle, how I should implore you to take me to teach little Enguerrand!” “I think you might do better than that,” said Giselle, wiping her friend’s eyes almost as a mother might have done, “if you would only listen to Fred.” Jacqueline’s cheeks became crimson. “Don’t mock me--it is cruel--I am too unworthy--it would pain me to see him. Shame--regret--you understand! But I can tell you one thing, Giselle--only you. You may tell it to him when he is quite old, when he has been long married, and when everything concerning me is a thing of the past. I never had loved any one with all my heart up to the moment when I read in that paper that he had fought for me, that his blood had flowed for me, that after all that had passed he still thought me worthy of being defended by him.” Her tears flowed fast, and she added: “I shall be proud of that all the rest of my life! If only you, too, would forgive me.” The heart of Giselle was melted by these words. “Forgive you, my dear little girl? Ah! you have been better than I. I forgot our old friendship for a moment--I was harsh to you; and I have so little right to blame you! But come! Providence may have arranged all for the best, though one of us may have to suffer. Pray for that some one. Good-by--‘au revoir!” She kissed Jacqueline’s forehead and was gone, before her cousin had seized the meaning of her last words. But joy and peace came back to Jacqueline. She had recovered her best friend, and had convinced her of her innocence. CHAPTER XIX. GENTLE CONSPIRATORS