bracing and invigorating, but it was cold and sunless. If it were the will of God that Henri should become a hunted fugitive, that he should be arrested as “refractory,” and should perish miserably in a fortress dungeon, there was nothing for her to say but this, “It is the Lord; let him do what seemeth him good.” And having said it, she would still be an unprofitable servant. Her heart, it is true, would be broken; but what mattered that to any one? While such thoughts passed through the mind of Clémence, Henri stood in silence, leaning against the little latticed window, and looking out upon the peaceful country landscape. At last he spoke. “They are gay enough in the village,” he said. “They do not seem to dread the conscription half so much as they did last year. In fact, this new war is very popular. Mathieu Féron, who was standing in his father’s forge when I went by, said _he_ would be glad to be drawn; and Jacques Bonin, and that other lad who is with him, were of the same mind, saying they would like nothing better than to go and give the Russians a good beating.” “What miserable folly!” said Clémence with bitter sadness. “What have the Russians done to us, that the blacksmith’s son and the butcher’s boys of Brie should be eager to go and kill them?” “I daresay you know as well as they do,” returned Henri. “‘It is in his heart to pluck up and to destroy kingdoms not a few,’” Clémence quoted. “But, Henri,” she added, with a sudden gleam of hope, “may not good for us spring out of this madness of theirs? Might we not, even if you draw a bad number, find a substitute? You know there is nothing we would not part with to raise the money--_nothing_.” Henri shook his head. “Last time,” he said, “the price went up to three thousand francs, and beyond it. Indeed, it was difficult to get one at any price. But that is not all,”--he lowered his voice: “Clémence, I have reason to think M. le Maire means no good to me.” She started. “Why do you say that?” she asked, with a quick fading of the new-born hope. “Quietly as we have lived here,” Henri resumed, “we are not quite unknown. Every one is aware that I am the son of Henri Charles de Talmont, who died for his King in La Vendée. I have no favour to hope. On the contrary, I think M. le Maire would be glad to see me with a musket on my shoulder.” “If that be the case,” Clémence returned sadly, “at least we may thank God that he cannot tamper with the numbers.” “The numbers we are to draw? They matter less than you think. The lists _must_ be filled up; and so many young men have been taken already that few enough are left to choose from now. In any case, our little village will have to contribute its full quota; and even should _I_ succeed in escaping, some other luckless lad will have to go in my place.” “It is not the misfortune of serving as a soldier that you want to escape, but the dishonour, nay the sin, of serving a usurper.” “But, Clémence”-- He paused. “Well, brother?”