On reaching the hall door, he was met by Julia Plessis; she was not at all uneasy, but handed him a pocket-book, saying— “I have left Sergeant Perrin fully occupied over a bottle of Cognac, to which he is greatly attached; you will have time to proceed to your room, and run your eyes over the papers prepared for you, which are in that book. It is unlucky my father is away; but the sergeant does not appear to be at all inquisitive—merely requesting to see you and your papers, and get you to write your name in his book.” “If we can avoid bringing Pierre Bompart before him,” said our hero, “there will be no suspicion excited.” He then proceeded to his chamber, and read over the papers. He was described as Monsieur Philip de Tourville, twenty-three years of age, and a native of Pontri and Picardy, with an attendant, named Pierre Bompart, also a native of the same place; there was no description of person, &c., as became the case some years afterwards; the paper being a simple register of name, and signed by the Paris official, and required to be read and signed by the maire of the district. Marie de Tourville had a separate paper. Having read the short document, he descended to the sitting-room, anxious to see Mabel, fearing she might be uneasy, and at the same time to break to her the joyful tidings of not only her brother’s safety, but his being then actually at Dame Moret’s. On entering the room, Mabel looked anxiously into his face, to judge if he felt alarmed; but he looked so cheerful, and made so light of the matter, that her sweet features brightened, as he sat down by her side, saying— “I have intelligence, dear Mabel, that will gladden your heart.” Our heroine looked anxious, saying— “What have you heard, dear William, since I saw you? I learned from Rose that you were gone to speak to a sailor, calling himself Louis Lebeau. Did he bring you the good news you speak of? Do you know I thought Rose looked as if she had something to communicate, and yet refrained for some reason?” “Rose, I dare say,” said the lieutenant, “wished me to impart a piece of intelligence that will fill your heart with joy.” “Can you mean, William,” said Mabel eagerly, and her hand resting on that of her lover, “can you mean that you have heard any tidings of poor Julian?” “Yes,” said the lieutenant, kissing the fair hand resting on his; “yes, sure and certain news of his not only being alive and well, but of his arrival in France.” “Heaven be praised!” fervently exclaimed Mabel, the tears coming into her eyes; “what joy this will be to my beloved mother. Did this Louis Lebeau bring you this joyful intelligence?” “He did, dearest.” And bending down his head, he whispered a few words in her ear. With an uncontrollable feeling of deep emotion, Mabel threw her arms round her lover’s neck, and laid her head upon his shoulder, weeping with excess of joy. “William, William, what joy you have imparted to my heart; dear Julian so near me!”