still smouldered in a long line of flickering blue fire on the sluggish black water; the pillars of the bridge, all that was left of it, still stood up, black columns tipped with flame, like colossal blazing torches, set in the darkness between the sable shadows of the river and the moonless midnight of the sky. On both banks of the broad river, before and behind us, lay the ruins that were prosperous factories that morning, now mere blackened shells, yet picturesque and radiant in the soft goldenruddy glow of the beautiful cruel flame that still licked and twisted

serpent-like in and out of the empty window-frames. Successful commonplace prosperity at noon, they were transfigured into resplendent ruin at night. They flashed into a glory of beauty once-for one brief hour-their last. As all things must come to a close, perhaps it was not so bad an end. They had their years of use, and their brief hour of splendour.

Looking back from the train, the last we saw of Richmond was the glow of the dying fire; the sleeping city beyond was lost in shadow.

VOL. XXXI.

MM

CHAPTER XLI.

THE FRONTIER.

'It is you, Harry,' said his cousin, as he touched him on the shoulder. The other roused himself and sat

up. There was a lantern hanging in the shed which cast its light upon his features. The light flickered, and his face moved uneasily. Jack could see that his eyes were bloodshot, and that his face was scratched, as if hurt by some growth of hedge or bramble. He wore the blouse of a peasant; but it was torn and covered with mud. His hands were bleeding; his face was pinched with want or worry. He only looked up with wearied eyes, but answered nothing. There was something so utterly wretched and deplorable in the sight of his lying there in his misery, that involuntarily his cousin rubbed his eyes with the back of

his hand.

'Harry, for God's sake, what has brought you here? You knowyou know that—'

'I am a deserter from the colours, or something of that sort. Well, it matters but little now, I suppose. I must go elsewhere. I don't know that I am altogether quite tired of life yet. I should like to have had my sleep out, though;' and he rested himself on his elbow and turned away his eyes.

Jack, too, for a time was silent. He could hear the sound of the rain, which was again falling heavily, beating on the garden outside. He could hear the voices of the comrades in the barn. He could hear the tramping sound of feet upon

the high-road, and the word of command smothered in the noise of the storm. Then there came to him a sense of the situation, and of the danger of the wretched being before him.

'Harry,' he said, 'there's no help for it you must go, and at once. Have you-have you any money? I have some. You must cross the country. Not one of the roads about here will be safe. What can you do?'

'Trust to Fortune,' answered the other, rising, and moving his lips in a ghastly smile; 'it could not serve me worse than it has done already. Fortune has been a bad mistress to me, hasn't she?'

Then, as the door of the farmhouse opened, they could now distinctly hear the sound of voices.

The danger's dreadful, my poor Harry; you must go-indeed you must; and he took out his purse and thrust it into his hand. To think that we should have to part this way! Shall we ever meet again? What does it all mean?'

'I am no philosopher,' said the other. Let us shake hands for this the last time. The future does not trouble me much. Stay where you are until I have made away. Good-bye, Jack; and forgive me, which is more than I can do for myself.'

Then he wrung his cousin's hand, and, placing his finger on his lip, slipped out into the rain and the darkness of the night.

Left alone, Jack shook himself, placed his hand again before his eyes, and then sighed deeply. The

rain fell heavily, and came rattling down on the roof above, so that he could detect no sound of his cousin's departure. He looked at the light of the lantern, as if its feeble rays could give him some sort of clue to the future. But the light was as dim as all hope he might have for his cousin and old comrade. On the wall the black angles of shadows played restlessly. In the corners of the barn all was darkness and gloom Some foxskins were nailed up as trophies, and these appeared to take the weirdest shapes. The place seemed still infected by the dismal Fates which had pursued its late tenant. Involuntarily he shuddered, and it was almost a relief for him to hear the voice of Jones, his comrade, calling to him through the night. The sound echoed away in the distant woods, and started the farmhouse dog, which began a loud barking.

That will frighten him,' he thought. He will think they're after him.' Then he made his way across the garden into the house.

About half a dozen of his brother officers were seated around a trestle-table which had been dragged into the middle of the room. They were only in their shirt-sleeves, for their coats were drying by the stove. In honour of the occasion, a couple of old brass lamps had been procured, and the black smoke from their clumsy wicks was streaming over the table. The room itself was as foul as a room well could be; still, it was good enough after the storm and drenching rain outside. The domesticated pig had been turned out to make room for the British officers, and was grunting and scratching outside. Even the fowls had been turned into the outhouse; and the peasantess hostess had actually tied up her unkempt locks, and washed her hands, at the sight of the red

coats and the thought of the pretty store of money which they had doubtless ready to shower upon her and her neighbours. It would have made a good picture for a modern Teniers the flickering light on the low rafters, the rough table with vegetables strewn upon it, the woman cooking at the stove, and a neighbour or two in their coloured night-caps, smoking their pipes and looking at the strangers. Round the table the military gentlemen were making the best of the situation, and trying to make themselves cheerful on some wretched fiery spirit which had been bought for their refreshment.

'It smells savoury enough, that precious stew,' said Lieutenant Hawkins, who was disposed to be cheerful enough now he was sure of a company without the disagreeable incident of purchase. 'They've put in a fowl, a lump of meat, and Heaven knows what. However, we shall get better luck that way when we reach Paris. I should like to see Paris, shouldn't you, Jones ?'

Jones sipped his spirits and puffed away at what was about his last cigar in that lazy state of supreme comfort which cares neither about answering, nor questioning, nor converse of any sort.

'We shall see the Louvre, we shall see the Invalides, we shall see Versailles,' continued Hawkins; and won't Jack's fine form astonish the Frenchwomen! O Jack, what a rascal you are!'

But Jack was thinking of his cousin, and was by no means disposed to be cheerful.

'When we've had supper we'll have some piquet,' cried Jones. 'I haven't seen the pips since we were at Brussels, and I'm beginning to feel quite at home here, despite the smell of the pigs and all the rest of it.'

Then their somewhat sorry meal

was brought before them; but the appetite which needs no sauce they all fortunately possessed, and there was but little murmur at what they would have shuddered at in a Bond-street hotel or at the worst mess in England. They had just finished, and were stretching out their limbs beside the welcome warmth of the stove, June night as it was, when the old Major made his appearance, the rain pouring off his hat and great cloak on to the floor.

'Hey, lads,' he said, 'you're warm and pleasant here. Better than lying out in the cornfields, isn't it ?'

He took off his coat, and they made room for him in the circle. Then he helped himself to a pinch of snuff, and looked leisurely around him.

'The 2d,' he said, 'have got off fairly well, considering. Sorry your cousin is down, though, Mister Jack,' he continued; we lost him. at Quatre Bras. Poor lad, he had a melancholy face on him, and that's always bad luck to follow-at least, I've always found it so ever since I joined, and that's not a few years ago, I can tell you all; and the Major, who was an old campaigner, condescended to take out a short pipe, which was then a great rarity, excepting with such officers as himself, who had served in the Canadas.

'That French fellow we collared at Waterloo managed to get off very easily,' said Jones, after a pause. 'A good job, too. We were all too sleepy to bother much about him. It's just as well, though, that we didn't babble about it; for the chief mightn't have liked it.'

To this Jack made no answer. He had not aided D'Epinelle in his escape; still, he had far from stood in the way of it. There was a great deal of laxity about taking

prisoners all through the campaign, and the Duke had made far greater fuss over our men letting the Prussians take some of the guns which were lawful British spoil, than when a few score of wounded Gauls had been so little looked after that they had been almost encouraged to crawl away homewards.

A few minutes after, little Jones produced his well-worn pack of cards, and they all, with the exception of Jack, gathered round the table.

'I shall walk down the road to the village,' he said. I can't stand this beastly close air; it turns me quite sick.'

'You'll be drenched with the rain, you young idiot,' said the Major. Stay where you are, and have some grog.'

But Jack only shook his head, and, putting on his great-coat, turned out into the dark and the gusty rain. He almost stumbled down the few steps that led into the high-road. He looked along to his left, and could see the lights twinkling in the cottage of the douanier, which just marked the frontier of France and Belgium. It was far too dark for him to see through the rain the woods of Lasnières; besides, he was in no humour to thoroughly relish the picturesque if he could have seen them. He walked, then, down the road that cut the highway at almost right angles, and which led to the main village of Malplaquet.

There men of the -2d were making themselves at home in the little cottages, and the noise of singing and shouting could be heard everywhere. Through one latticed window he could see them sitting, pipe and mug in hand, yelling out their choruses to their hearts' content. The red-coats seemed bright and cheerful, and there was a happy look on all their

faces; at least, the great risks of the campaign were all over. At any rate, all of them thought so, and Tommy Atkins was enjoying himself as best he could. Opposite a little inn, that stood by the Place, Jack stood for a moment, and watched some familiar faces as the lights fell upon them.

'Another time I should have liked to have been with the lads,' he thought; but poor Harry, what will become of him? Why should I have all the good luck in this world, I wonder? How we used to talk, only a month or so ago, about seeing Paris together! I wish I had never heard the name of it, and I wish this business had never come off at all.'

So he stood in the rain, undecided what to do, until at length he traced his steps backwards to the farm on the high-road. Jones and the Major were playing together on the rough table, and some of the others were idly glancing at their cards over their shoulders.

'Nice night for a walk, Jack!' said Jones; hope you liked it, my boy. Any one can tell that you're in love; you're as restless as a half-starved cat.'

But Jack only gave a half laugh, and mounted the stairs to the poor attic which he was to share with a couple of his comrades. Arrived there, he rolled up his cloak for a pillow, and, covering himself with one of the coarse blankets which had been left by the peasantess, lay down on the floor, and, despite his mind troubled with the troubles of others, was soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER XLII.
ON THE WAY HOME!

NEXT to shopping, in the female mind, possibly packing up is the most delightful of pleasures; at

least, is the most delightful when you happen to be on the best of terms with yourself, and with the world in general and particular. It is a labour of love, which ought to be lingered over at your own sweet will. It is like the making up of a bouquet to a young lover who is well versed in the language of flowers. Each article of clothing has a pretty history of its own; each trinket a tender romance and reminiscence. Have you never, Mr. Smith, noticed this in your return from breezy Scarborough or London-super-Mare? In that coat you first met Araminta; in that necktie you earned your first smile; with that pair of brown kids you first pressed the dainty fingers of your love, and had a gentle flutter at the heart in finding it returned. Perish the degraded soul who, after a month's pleasure, devotes his packing to a sordid hireling! Yet no one has written anything on the charms of packing. The gentle Elia would have made a better essay over it than ever he did over 'roast pork.' Addison himself might have penned one of his daintiest sketches in the Spectator. Thackeray would have treated the subject, perhaps, in too coldly a cynical fashion. He would, so to speak, have dissected your portmanteau He would have held up every little bit of frippery as a portion of a contemptible anatomy. He would have aroused a halfbitter sigh, which would have been checked by a still more bitter smile.

for you.

But this is wandering a little too much from what was meant for the subject. And the subject was the fact that Miss Hetty Dawson was packing up previous to her departure for England. She was in that little drawing-room which overlooked the Montagne de la Coura room now endeared to her by