What had captivated the young fellow with this girl who lay unconscious in the fold of his arm? She had a pleasant, interesting face, beheld even through the death pallor that lay upon it; but she was not beautiful or even pretty. Her hair was abundant and fair, inclining, as you might even judge by that light, to auburn. But it was not her face nor hair, it was her figure that had excited admiration into passion in the young sailor. Her shape and involuntary poses were saucy and perfect beyond expression. She always carried her hat on one side of her head--"cock-billed," as the sailors call it; she had a trick of planting her hands on her hips; her limbs were beautifully shaped, and her short skirts exposed as much or little of them as her figure required. No dancer of exquisite art could have played her legs as this girl did, yet all her movements were involuntary and unconscious, and therein lay the sweetness, for had a hint of study been visible in her motions the whole maidenly and fairy-like illusion would have hardened into acting. Young Hardy had thought of the Vivandière, of the Fille-du-Regiment, when he looked at her. He could not have told you why. Was it the sauciness, that was not wanton, of the repose of her hands upon her hips? the unconsciously crossed leg when standing? the cock-billed hat, or tam-o'-shanter, that made you feel the need of music? the fixed gaze that was not staring but pensive? the sudden change of attitude that was like the cloud shadow upon a rose on which the sun had rested? What had all this to do with the Vivandière? But Hardy had got the word and the idea into his head, and when he thought of her at sea 'twas as though she was walking with a regiment with a little barrel of cordial waters upon her back. Again he looked up the road and then down the road; he could hear a cart in a lane that ran parallel, but nobody was visible. He was beginning to wonder what he was to do--whether he had the physical strength to carry this fine girl in his arms four miles, that is, to his father's house--when she sighed, stirred like an awakening sleeper, sighed again, and opened a pair of gray eyes full upon his face. "Do you know me?" he asked. "Where am I?" she answered, and with a sudden effort she raised her form out of his arm, but in a moment fell back again in sheer weakness. "Don't you remember your old friend George Hardy?" he said. She looked at him with that sort of intentness which you will sometimes see in a baby's eyes, and her lips drooped into a scarcely perceptible smile. "What am I doing here?" she asked, and she gazed round her, deeply puzzled. He gave her a little more brandy, which she certainly stood in need of, and looking at her without speaking, he waited until more mind came into her face; and now she made an effort to rise. "Keep still until you have come right to," said he. "I wish some old cart would come along to give us a lift to my father's." "Your father's?"