through her mind, she recalled with startling clearness all the incidents of her last meeting with the young farmer. She saw him at her feet in that dingy cell of the citadel at Montaignac; she felt his first and only kiss upon her cheek, and remembered that he had given her a second letter, saying as he did so: “You will read this when I am dead.” She might read it now, for he had already cruelly expiated his share in her father’s enterprise. But then what had become of it? She had not given it a thought till now; but at present, raising herself up in bed, she exclaimed in an eager, imperious voice: “My dress, give me my dress.” The old nurse obeyed her, and Marie-Anne could not restrain an exclamation of delight when, on examining the pocket, she found the letter there. She opened it and read it slowly, then, sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears. Maurice hastily approached her. “What is the matter?” he inquired anxiously. Her only reply was to hand him the missive. Chanlouineau, it should be remembered, was only a poor peasant. Scarcely possessing the rudiments of education, as his letter (written on common paper and closed with a huge wafer, specially purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse) evinced plainly enough. The heavy, laboured, distorted characters, had evidently been traced by a man who was more at home when guiding a plough than a pen. There was but one straight line, and every third word, at least, was mis-spelt. And yet the thoughts expressed were noble and generous, well worthy of the true heart that had beat in the young farmer’s breast. “Marie-Anne,”--So the letter began. “The outbreak is at hand, and whether it succeeds or fails, at all events, I shall die. I decided that on the day when I learned that you could marry no other man than Maurice d’Escorval. The conspiracy cannot succeed; and I understand your father well enough to know that he will not survive defeat. And if Maurice and your brother should both be killed, what would become of you? Oh, my God, would you not be reduced to beggary? The thought has haunted me continually. I have reflected, and this is my last will: I give and bequeath to you all my property, everything that I possess: My house, the Borderie, with its gardens and vineyards, the woodland and pastures of Berarde, and five lots of lands at Valrollier. An inventory of this property, and of the other possessions I leave to you is deposited with the notary at Sairmeuse. You can accept this bequest without fear; for I have no relatives, and am at liberty to dispose of my belongings as I please. If you do not wish to remain in France, the property can be sold for at least forty thousand francs. But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your own province. The house on the Borderie is comfortable and convenient, for I have had it thoroughly repaired. Upstairs you will find a room that has been fitted up by the best upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for you.