Slowly the strength came to the feeble pulse, but when the frail man was permitted to leave his sick bed, it was found that his cough became less frequent and his fever had subsided. Then, too, he was moved into a large upper chamber, the best the house afforded, and although the kind attentions of Dorcas were unremitted, he lost all sense of care or espionage. Gradually he recognized himself as a member of the family, and never was there any allusion to his advent or expected departure. Before many months he was the dear “uncle,” of the household, taking his part in all that went on; teaching the little Lucretia; reading aloud bits of quaint wisdom or humor, from “Le Roman de la Rose,” and “Le Roman du Renart;” pages from Froissart, his beloved Pascal, and La Bruyère; or listening to the many schemes for lifting the burdens of others that were constantly suggested by George or Dorcas. From 1820 to 1830 there was a great awakening on the subject of Prison Reform. The work of England’s noble Howard had been supplemented by that of the devoted Elizabeth Fry, and the whole world rang with their achievements. Slow, alas! was the motion across the water, but sure in its coming. Henri Beauclaire, too feeble to exert great physical effort, was keenly alive to the necessity of introducing humanitarian methods in all places for the confinement of the accused. He labored unceasingly toward an enlargement and purification of the county jail, for separate day rooms for the men and women, for decent food and lavatories, and for constant occupation. In all he did Henri was warmly seconded by his true friends, and when at last the summons came that called him from their midst, no one among the villagers was more regretted. In the short will which was found amid his small effects, he had bequeathed the old chateau to his native town as a home for such discharged prisoners as were friendless and aged, and the closing clause read thus: “To my more than sister, my earthly savior, Dorcas Townsend, I leave the testimony of my later years, and the contents of my strong-box.” This contained some valuable silver and household linen bearing a coronet, and a sandalwood casket wherein reposed a yellow muslin cap string. In the evening following the burial Dorcas sat with her family about her on the moonlit porch. She slid her hand softly into that of her husband, and said: “George dear, thee has never asked me, but I should like to tell thee, the secret of my peculiar interest in our brother who has passed away.” Then my grandame told the story, and the accurate memory of my mother gave it unto me as it is written. At its conclusion her husband kissed her flushed cheek, saying: “Thine was ever a romantic nature, and were romance always controlled by reason, how many lives might blossom into joy and usefulness, as did that of our beloved Henri.” THE END. IN UNIFORM STYLE: THE PRISONER OF ZENDA: