when he is a prisoner, Marguerite, I give you my word of honor I will go to M. de Lévis and claim him for myself, like a squaw," and she laughed merrily.

"How can you laugh, Angélique? Don't you see what it means to me?"

"Don't you see what it means to us, Marguerite? You know how we have hoped and suffered. You have lived amongst us and shared everything we had to give, joy and sorrow alike. Do you owe nothing to us? You were defended by him who lies in his grave below when a jealous woman would have branded you as a spy. Do you owe nothing to M. de Montcalm? Do you owe nothing to those others who stood between you and her malice?"

"Angélique, do you think you need remind me of these things?"

"Forgive me, chérie, if I am ungracious enough to urge the claim of benefits bestowed. This is no time for pretty speeches. I would urge anything to decide you." "It is not that. If I could go as I am, and simply risk capture, or even death, would not hesitate."

I

"You cannot go as you are! A woman could not even pass through the streets to-night, but no one will look twice at a uniform."

"But I cannot. Think what it will mean to me if I am discovered! think what it will mean even if I succeed!"

66

Marguerite, Marguerite, you must forget what you are! You must forget what you can do, and what you cannot do! Forget everything! save that these tidings must reach M. de Lévis to-night, and that you are the only one who can carry them. There! Begin to undress at once! Quick! Quick! Any further delay may render all useless."

Might this not be the reparation for any share I had had in the refusal of Sarennes to return to the relief of Louisbourg? If I accepted it, and proved successful, would I not carry into my new vocation something more than the failure of a life that had sought but its own ends? If I failed, would I not at least have attempted something for those who had so generously befriended me? Was not my shrinking from the ordeal of the disguise but a harking back to those little conventions which I had resolved to cast aside forever? Could I make a better use of my life than to lay it down, if need be, in such a cause?

Reasoning thus, I caught something of the intensity of purpose which dominated Angélique, and with fingers as eager as her own I prepared myself for my venture.

"What if I am stopped and spoken to in the town?"

"Don't be stopped," she laughed, "and you mustn't speak unless your life depends on it. Carry your sword in your hand, so it won't trip you up, square your shoulders, and try to swagger like a man. Once outside the walls, you run no danger at all. Keep on the Ste. Foye Road, and you are sure to fall in with our people and be captured in due form. Then say, 'Gentlemen, I am a most important prisoner; take me at once to M. le Général!' Et v'là! the trick is done! Nothing easier. If I had only learned to speak your barbarous language, and were a little taller, I would be in your shoes to-night, and wouldn't change places with the best lady in Versailles!"

Chattering and laughing thus in her excitement, she shortened up straps and adjusted buckles with as many jests as though dressing me for a masquerade.

"There!" she cried, as she coiled up my hair tightly. We must do without the wig, but the bonnet will cover a multitude of sins. You are as pretty a looking fellow as the heart of woman could desire. Nothing is wanting now but a brave carriage! Walk up and down, like this, till I see," and she did her best to imitate a martial stride. Courage, chérie! you are pale as a ghost. Courage! and remember every heart true to France will pray for you, whether you win or lose. You are carrying the fate of the colony in your hands to-night. Let me kiss you, chérie. Again. Bah! I'm only crying because I can't go in your stead. Come, I will let you out."

When the side door of the convent shut behind me and I found myself alone in the darkness of the narrow street, my courage wellnigh failed me, and with shame in my heart I realized I was trembling so I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. But the rain dashed into my face by the high wind that had risen revived me, and with an effort I went on. As I made my way down past the Jesuits' my courage gradually returned, and resolutely thinking of my mission alone, I banished my fears to such extent that I was enabled to grasp

As I turned into St. John Street a drunken soldier struck terror into me again by shouting out a convivial salutation in Gaelic, but his more sober comrades silenced him with low curses at his imprudence, and I went on unmolested.

There were not so many in the streets as I had expected, and with this one exception no one noticed me; but as I drew near to St. John's Gate I made out a crowd of men busily engaged in barricading it, and for a moment I stood still in bewildered helplessness. had so resolved on leaving the town by this means that when I found it closed against me it seemed as if my whole plan had failed. With my heart beating so I could hardly see to direct my steps, I turned back along the way I had come, and it was not until I drew near the Palace Hill I remembered there were other exits. Gaining fresh courage, I turned down and made my way to the Palace Gate, when, for the first time, it struck me that a password must be given, and of it I was ignorant. I did not even know the forms necessary to pass the men, and if an officer were present I must be discovered at once; but it was now too late to draw back, as I was in full view of the guard.

It was a strange time to remember such things, but the first line of poor Lucy's hymn kept ringing in my head, and I advanced, saying over and over to myself. like a charm,

"Thou very present Aid In suffering and distress."

When I was almost face to face with the guard I made out it was composed of sailors, and just as I expected to hear the words which meant discovery and disgrace, one said to the other in a tone of authority-"The Seventy-eighth. It's all

VOL. XCVIII.-No. 585.-56

presented arms. Had I even known
the password I could not have pro-
nounced it, for my tongue clave to the
roof of my mouth; but seeing my intent,
the man who had spoken stepped before
me and opened the wicket.
I raised my
hand in acknowledgment, and passed
through.

I was without the walls.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]

snow. Often I paused, thinking to clear the snow away in some place and there lay my offering. But no, my faith must be in nature, and I must trust to it to lay bare the earth.

It was a hard struggle for so small a child.

I went on and on; the reeds were waving their tasselled ends in the wind. I stopped and looked at them. A reed, whirling in the wind, had formed a space round its stem, making a loose socket. I stood looking into the opening. The reed must be rooted in the ground, and the hole must follow the stem to the earth. If I poured my offerings into the hole, surely they must reach the ground; so I said the prayer I had been taught, and dropped my tobacco and red feathers into the opening that nature itself had

created.

The next day the medicine-woman said my little sister was beyond hope; she could not live. Then bitter remorse was

mine, for I thought I had been unfaithful, and therefore my little sister was to be called to the spirit-land I was a silent child, and did not utter my feelings; my remorse was intense.

My parents would not listen to what the medicine-woman had said, but clung to hope. As soon as she had gone, they sent for a medicine-man who lived many miles away.

He arrived about dark. He was a large man, with a sad, gentle face. His pres ence had always filled me with awe, and that night it was especially so, for he was coming as a holy man. He entered the room where the baby lay, and took a seat, hardly noticing any one. There was silence saving only for the tinkling of the little tin ornaments on his medicinebag. He began to speak: "A soul has departed from this house, gone to the spiritland. As I came I saw luminous vapor above the house. It ascended, it grew less, it was gone on its way to the spiritland. It was the spirit of the little child who is sick; she still breathes, but her spirit is beyond our reach. If medicine will ease her pain, I will do what I can."

He stood up and blessed the four cor

ners of the earth with song. Then, according to the usual custom of medicine-doctors, he began reciting the vision that had given him the right to be a medicine - man. The ruling force of the vision had been in the form of a bear. To it he addressed his prayer, saying: "Inasmuch as thou hast given me power to cure the sick, and in one case allowing me to unite spirit and body again, if thou seest fit, allow me to recall the spirit of this child to its body once more." He asked that the coverings be taken off the baby, and that it be brought into the middle of the room. Then, as he sang, he danced slowly around the little form. When the song was finished, he blessed the child, and then prepared the medicine, stirring into water some ground herbs. This he took into his mouth and sprinkled it over the little body. Another mixture he gave her to drink.

Almost instantly there was a change; the little one began to breathe more easily, and as the night wore on she seemed to suffer less. Finally she opened her eyes, looked into mother's face, and

smiled. The medicine man, seeing it, said that the end was near, and though he gave her more medicine, the spirit, he said, would never return.

After saying words of comfort, he took his departure, refusing to take a pony and some blankets that were offered him, saying that he had been unable to hold the spirit back, and had no right to accept the gifts.

The next morning I found the room all cleared away, and my mother sat sewing on a little white gown. The bright red trimming caught my eye. I came to her and asked, "Please mother, tell me for whom is that, and why do you make it so pretty?" She made no answer, but bent over her work. I leaned forward that I might look into her face and repeat my question. I bent down, and, oh! the tears were falling fast down her cheeks. Then we were told that our little sister was gone to the spirit-land, and we must not talk about her. They made us look upon her. We felt of her and kissed her, but she made no response. Then I realized what death meant. Remorse again seized me, but I was silent.