His quick eye caught the cipher on the lid. “What! a D’Enville? Ha! this accounts for the purity of your accent. Any relation to Roderick d’Enville?” “My father, sire.” “He was my schoolfellow at the Ecole Polytechnique. Embrace me!” And the Emperor fell upon my neck in the presence of his entire staff. Then, recovering himself, he gently placed in my hand his own magnificent snuff-box, in exchange for mine, and hanging upon my breast the cross of the Legion of Honor which he took from his own, he bade one of his marshals conduct me back to my regiment. I was so intoxicated with the honor of which I had been the recipient, that on reaching our lines I uttered a shout of joy and put spurs to my horse. The intelligent animal seemed to sympathize with my feelings, and fairly flew over the ground. On a rising eminence a few yards before me stood a gray-haired officer, surrounded by his staff. I don’t know what possessed me, but putting spurs to my horse, I rode at him boldly, and with one bound cleared him, horse and all. A shout of indignation arose from the assembled staff. I wheeled suddenly, with the intention of apologizing, but my mare misunderstood me, and, again dashing forward, once more vaulted over the head of the officer, this time unfortunately uncovering him by a vicious kick of her hoof. “Seize him!” roared the entire army. I was seized. As the soldiers led me away, I asked the name of the gray-haired officer. “That—why, that’s the DUKE OF WELLINGTON!” I fainted. * * * * * For six months I had brain fever. During my illness ten grapeshot were extracted from my body which I had unconsciously received during the battle. When I opened my eyes I met the sweet glance of a Sister of Charity. “Blanche!” I stammered feebly. “The same,” she replied. “You here?” “Yes, dear; but hush! It’s a long story. You see, dear Terence, your grandfather married my great-aunt’s sister, and your father again married my grandmother’s niece, who, dying without a will, was, according to the French law”— “But I do not comprehend,” I said. “Of course not,” said Blanche, with her old sweet smile; “you’ve had brain fever; so go to sleep.” I understood, however, that Blanche loved me; and I am now, dear reader, Sir Terence Sackville, K. C. B., and Lady Blanche is Lady Sackville. MARY McGILLUP A SOUTHERN NOVEL AFTER BELLE BOYD WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY G. A. S-LA INTRODUCTION “Will you write me up?”