Josephine’s excitement and alternations of hope and fear were now alarming. Rose held her hand, and implored her to try and be calm till they could see Raynal. Just before dark he came riding fiercely home. Josephine flew down the stairs. Raynal at sight of her forgot all his caution. He waved his cocked hat in the air. She fell on her knees and thanked God. He gasped out,-- “Prisoner--exchanged for two Prussian lieutenants--sent home--they say he is in France!” The tears of joy gushed in streams from her. Some days passed in hope and joy inexpressible; but the good doctor was uneasy for Josephine. She was always listening with supernatural keenness and starting from her chair, and every fibre of her lovely person seemed to be on the quiver. Nor was Rose without a serious misgiving. Would husband and wife ever meet? He evidently looked on her as Madame Raynal, and made it a point of honor to keep away from Beaurepaire. They had recourse to that ever-soothing influence--her child. Madame Jouvenel was settled in the village, and Josephine visited her every day, and came back often with red eyes, but always soothed. One day Rose and she went to Madame Jouvenel, and, entering the house without ceremony, found the nurse out, and no one watching the child. “How careless!” said Rose. Josephine stopped eagerly to kiss him. But instead of kissing him, she uttered a loud cry. There was a locket hanging round his neck. It was a locket containing some of Josephine’s hair and Camille’s. She had given it him in the happy days that followed their marriage. She stood gasping in the middle of the room. Madame Jouvenel came running in soon after. Josephine, by a wonderful effort over herself, asked her calmly and cunningly,-- “Where is the gentleman who put this locket round my child’s neck? I want to speak with him.” Madame Jouvenel stammered and looked confused. “A soldier--an officer?--come, tell me!” “Woman,” cried Rose, “why do you hesitate?” “What am I to do?” said Madame Jouvenel. “He made me swear never to mention his coming here. He goes away, or hides whenever you come. And since Madame does not love the poor wounded gentleman, what can he do better?” “Not love him!” cried Rose: “why, she is his wife, his lawful wedded wife; he is a fool or a monster to run away for her. She loves him as no woman ever loved before. She pines for him. She dies for him.” The door of a little back room opened at these words of Rose, and there stood Camille, with his arm in a sling, pale and astounded, but great joy and wonder working in his face. Josephine gave a cry of love that made the other two women weep, and in a moment they were sobbing for joy upon each other’s neck.