“When I explained to her that my uncle had left me so noble a fortune, and that you were her brother’s son, she told me she had heard all that, and that Jean Plessis was even then seeking the necessary documents to establish her marriage and my poor lamented brother Julian’s birth. Afterwards came your letter, inclosed in one from good Dame Moret’s son to Jean Plessis, who had just returned. Imagine our joy, though still our anxiety. “Then it was that Julia proposed that I should accompany her and her father and mother to Coulancourt, as Mademoiselle de Tourville. Ah, William—I still call you William”—our hero pressed the little hand resting on his arm—“I was easily persuaded to practise this ruse upon you, to see if you still remembered the ‘little pale, thin child’ that clung to you years back, as her only hope; and so good Monsieur Plessis, who had an eye to your escape out of France, and to guard you from imprisonment, whilst in it, by bribery, procured papers for Monsieur Philip and Mademoiselle Marie de Tourville, so that if you attracted notice you might pass for my brother; after arranging this plan, it struck my mother that she might also get out of France, but Jean Plessis over-persuaded her for the present, as it might prove our destruction, and at one sweep confiscate all her property. My dear mother cared not for the estates, she so longed to quit France; but then she knew she might involve good Monsieur Plessis, whose attachment and noble generosity had caused him so often to risk his life for her and her late husband, so she consented to my coming here. ‘And perhaps,’ suggested Monsieur Plessis, ‘by a little manœuvring you may, madame, be able to visit Coulancourt yourself.’ This idea delighted my mother, for she longs to see and embrace you. “So now, dear William, it is I that have to ask your pardon for thinking to steal your heart from little Mabel.” Young hearts—young hearts—how few and simple are the words from the lips beloved that constitute the felicity! We know not the delights in the years that follow. As they approached the château, walking up from the bottom of the lawn, they beheld Rose Moret running from the front door to meet them. “What can cause Rose to hurry so?” exclaimed Mabel—we will drop her assumed name; but Rose was up with them before they could surmise, or utter a conjecture. She looked like a full-blown peony, her cheeks were so flushed. “Why, Rose, you are out of breath,” said Julia; “anything wrong?” “Well, indeed, mademoiselle, perhaps what I have to tell you may not be pleasant; but mother told me to run and take the short cut, and to tell you that Sergeant François Perrin and another gendarme are coming to the château on a visit of inspection; but do not be alarmed, for it is only a matter of form.” Mabel at first turned pale, and clung with a feeling of alarm to her companion, but Julia Plessis re-assured her by saying—