"But I must, I will. When has he had pain, and his mother not known how to soothe him! Where is he, Renée ?" "O Madame de l'Orme!" "I tell you I will go, Renée. You think I am too weak. I am strong now. No journey will be too long, too difficult. Where is he, Renée ?" "Where you cannot go. You cannot follow him where-” "But I tell you I will, Renée. Ah, he is a prisoner too, then, my boy, my poor boy! But that makes no difference. Prison doors have been opened by a mother's tears: they will be now. The Germans have hearts; they are good fathers and loving sons. They will not refuse me all I shall ask-to share his captivity." "But, dear Madame de l'Orme, how shall I tell you, he does not need you now." She absolutely smiled. "Not need me, not need his mother! However well he may be cared for, no one can nurse my Henri like his mother. Has he not said so a thousand times?" Would she never understand? I must speak plainer, and yet I dreaded unspeakably the too probable effects of the shock. "Madame de l'Orme," I said, "listen to me. Let me tell you what Léon says." I sought to dissuade her, but it was no use; she would not listen. "The letter-give me the letter," she repeated. What could I do? I placed it in her hand. She read it through slowly, with no change on her fixed face. Then the hands relaxed their convulsive grasp, and she fell back senseless. Not dead; and yet for her the bitterness of death was past. Bertine's bitter wailings did not reach her ear; all the doctor's skill, all our efforts, failed to bring back consciousness to the stricken form. As I feared, the dart had struck home. Through the long hours of that summer day we watched over her, I and Bertine, and for a time Nina and my mother; the din of many voices coming in from the busy crowded streets into that silent chamber falling dirge-like on our ears. But they disturbed her not. She had done with earth. At the solemn midnight hour the last rites of human religion were administered over the breathing but senseless form, and before another day dawned her spirit had departed. This was the first-fruits that we gathered of the fearful war-harvest, whose after-growth was so rank. I have recorded thus fully this one ear from its countless sheaves, because, while that one alone was at that time mingled closely with our own daily lives, it is, alas! but a sample of thousands of kindred pictures; not, perhaps, of the swift striking home of the poisoned dart, but of the bitter grief and desolation. Many were the hearts and homes even then shrouded beneath the pall of grief; but I must not linger over them here. We had many acquaintances in Paris, but Madame de l'Orme had been my mother's friend from girlhood, and her own and her son's death were heart-felt sorrows to us all. CHAPTER VIII. THE TWO-EDGED SWORD. The word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart."-HEB. iv. 12. "The entrance of thy words giveth light."-Ps. cxix. 130. THE news of the double defeat of our armies, and the falling back of our troops on Metz and Chalons, was followed by a burst of popular in dignation, which resulted in a change of the Ollivier ministry, obnoxious now as the originators of the war. The people of Paris had already forgotten how they had themselves clamoured for it. I often thought in those days of the lovely lady on whose fair brow a crown was pressing with such deadly weight, beneath whose feet the pride and power of imperial glory were crumbling away. How does she look on those days now from her quiet refuge on England's hospitable shores? Can it be with regret? Anxious days and weary nights must those have been when, to a wife's longings after an absent and suffering husband, a mother's yearning over a young and delicately-nurtured boy, both exposed to the dangers and vicissitudes of war, were added the crushing burdens and overwhelming responsibilities of one to whose weak woman's hand it had fallen to guide the helm of state when the storm was raging, night closing round, and "Breakers ahead!" the cry from aloft. With the elasticity and buoyancy of temperament, which is so marked a characteristic of our nation, the people of Paris soon rallied from the shock, and talked with scornful pity of the fated German hosts, who were being led on by the wily tactics of our generals to invade the sacred soil of France. It was no retreat, that retrograde movement of the whole line of our army from the positions it had occupied, but a strategic movement, a deep-laid plan, whose result would be certain triumph for France, equally certain ruin and, if they persevered, annihilation to the presumptuous Germans. But the feeling against the Emperor was very strong; it was owned now that the army and military stores had been very far from reaching the pitch of efficiency and preparedness the people had been taught to believe in, and all the blame was hurled remorselessly at the one devoted head. But that head, if a crowned one, was human, and as such capable of being betrayed and deceived. Yet it would have been treason to hint that in Paris then. And to me it seems that habit of always shifting the blame and responsibility of actions the results of which have been productive of disaster from their own shoulders to the head of an individual or collective scapegoat is one, and not the least, of the many causes of the inconsistencies and follies of the French people. A fault not seen can never be repented of, and a fault not repented of cannot be corrected. The French people never admit that they have been wrong. That "the sovereign people can do no wrong" is indeed their creed, and the onus of their errors must ever be borne by those who rule them. So now, forgetting the cries of exultation with which Paris had rung when the first notes of the trumpet were heard, they complained plaintively that they had been deceived and forced into the war. But in spite of that, France would yet be true to her old traditions; strenuous exertions had been made to supply deficiencies and remedy past errors, fresh contingents of troops were being daily sent on to the camp at Chalons, and all would be well. It is a sickening story of vain, baseless hope to dwell upon, when we recall how many high and noble hearts have eaten themselves out dur ing its course. That the Prussians would pass Metz, force the camp at Chalons, and reach Paris, was a wild improbability that every one scouted. Still preparations were being made for its defence, if such extremity could occur. General Trochu was appointed Governor of Paris a few days after intelligence reached us of the investiture of Strasburg and the surrender of Fort Lichtenburg. But it was with strange inaccuracies and reservations, mingled with statements worthy of a darker name, that we were told of these things in Paris. Those terrible fields of carnage round Metz on the bloody days of Gravelotte, Vionville, and Mars-la-Tour, were represented to us as rather victories than defeats; victories costing dearly indeed, but tending to ultimate success. It seemed strange certainly that the invading armies should be allowed to advance, to bombard Strasburg, and to sit down before Metz; but then we were told of strategic reasons, and beguiled with vague rumours of apocryphal successes, in one of which thousands of Prussians were said to have been hurled in panic-stricken flight into the quarries of Jaucourt. Meanwhile our fleet was blockading the northern ports of Germany, and the palm about to be carried off from England as mistress of the seas. While these things were going on, and the meshes of Fate gathering imperceptibly around her, life in Paris went on as usual. The weather was hot and oppressive; my mother visibly drooped under its effects and anxiety for Léon. Uncle Lucien was full of contempt and anger for the failures and follies of the imperial government, but of hope for the future of France; intolerant of the slightest hint of eventual defeat; placing implicit credit in the illusive proclamations of the existing ministry. Augustine was wholly averse to war for its own sake; besides, we looked upon him as already a priest, and therefore did not expect military enthusiasm from him. He was most kind and thoughtful for us all, endeavouring in every way possible to supply Léon's place, especially to my mother; but there was evidently an oppressive weight on his spirits that he struggled vainly to throw off. At night I could hear his step pacing up and down his room, which was above mine, far on into the morning. Victor was full of indignation at the ill success of our arms, burning with passionate desire to see the stain effaced from them; only prevented by consideration for my mother from at once throwing up his studies and rallying round the drooping banner of France. I partly suspected even then the reason of his daily absence from home in the hours that were wont to be his leisure ones, and the object of the studies to which he applied himself so closely. Nina was a shade paler and more thoughtful, but in other respects much like her old self, except that she cared less for going out, and was, I was sure, struggling for the mastery over her wilful temper. Arnaud was still our pet and plaything, though every inch a soldier in his own estimation, and asking constantly, Would the Prussians come to Paris? if so, he and all the schoolboys of the city were going to form companies and regiments, and have officers, and help to drive them away. Poor child! he was too young to remember the father of whom war had deprived us, therefore could the less understand why we should all be so grave and so anxious about Léon. Léon's regiment was, we believed, at or near Chalons, with M'Mahon, but whether he could receive our letters or not was very doubtful, and we watched in vain for any from him till towards When one the close of the month (August). came, it was certainly not exactly "good news from a far country;" but ocean waves are not greater barrier than the stern restrictions and necessities of war time. Postal and railway communications within the invaded territories were necessarily much obstructed, and in the other parts blocked up in measure by military exigencies. So Léon's letter was none the less a "cup of cold water." It was long, and full of interest to us, touching far more on his own life in camp and field than on the state of affairs. Indeed, there was little allusion to the latter. The letter, he said, might, by no very impossible chance, fall into the hands of the enemy, therefore he could not speak freely. He wrote from the neighbourhood of Chalons. Paris had already heard with astonishment that the camp which was to be so insuperable a barrier in the Germans' path was to be broken up. Of course, for "strategic reasons." Léon gave no clue as to their probable course, and dwelt little upon past reverses. But though the tone of his letter was calm and cheerful, it was by no means reassuring. Not to me, at least. There was no allusion to, or contradiction of, the postscript to his last letter. But I felt he augured ill for the future. It may be that I am naturally prone to look upon the dark side, for to Uncle Lucien and Victor the letter was very encouraging. mamma (and Nina too, I think) it was tidings, good tidings, from Léon, and they cared for nothing more. I have that letter still, almost worn out by constant reading through the weary months that followed its receipt. Το One part I must copy here, the one in which Léon speaks of the death of poor Henri de l'Orme. He says "Our losses have, of course, been severe, and many a familiar and friendly face is missing from my own battalion. Some are lying maimed and suffering in hospital beds, others under the blood-stained turf of the fields on which they fell. The loss of more than one has left a sore spot in my heart. But over none have I grieved as over poor Henri de l'Orme. His poor mother, how will she have borne it! It was a hard task for you, my poor Renée, to be the bearer of such tidings. I could scarcely have given it to you, knowing how faithfully you would perform it, whatever it might cost you, if | everlasting life;' 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, I asked it of you; but there is a sacredness in the last requests of the dying, and he named you. I must tell you what I can of him; his mother will hunger to know all that can be told. "I did not see him fall, but after the fight was done he was missing, and Pierre Duvanse told me he saw him go down in the last desperate charge his regiment had made. Pierre was wounded in the foot slightly, but sufficiently to prevent his walking; so, having impatiently listened to his rambling descriptions as to the way I must take to reach the spot, I set out in search of him. He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life;' 'I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;' then, after a slight pause,— 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest;' and, 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' There were more, but the wind died down into one of those strange hushes, and I could not catch the rest. But I cannot tell you the wonderful sweetness and power with which they came, as the speaker uttered them in deep, earnest, solemn tones, dwelling strongly on the words I have marked. And they came from a spot a little distance off, near three bushes. It was the one I sought. "I went at once towards it. Just then the moon shone hazily out through a rift in the wrack of clouds, and by her light I saw two figures on the ground near them. One was a young man, in the uniform of a German officer; and on his breast, pale in its death agony, was pillowed the fair young face of Henri de l'Orme, looking like "I will not dwell upon the horrors of that field of death. Even did I wish to depict half of them, language would fail me. The night was wild and cloudy. Thick banks of heavy whitish-gray clouds drifted drearily across the sky, and the pale sickly light of the half-obscured moon rested weirdly on the upturned faces of the dead, on the quivering forms of the living. Ever and anon a gust of wind swept by with a shrieking, sobbing sound, dying suddenly away into a low dirge-like wail, and followed by an awful hush of stillness, broken only by the groans of-oh, so like-his mother's. the wounded, the heavy tread and subdued voices of the ambulance and burying parties. My heart was wrung as I pressed on in haste, lest what I sought might not be found. Already many heads, carried proudly in health and hope that morning, had been laid to rest on their last pillows, and covered with earth's last covering. It was no easy task, in the dim light, on the undulating plain, to find the spot I sought; low, stunted bushes were scattered here and there, everywhere. I had been directed to a group of three, near a low stone wall. At last I found the latter, and leaned against it a moment while I looked round for the other landmarks. A voice caught my ear in a different direction from that in which I was looking. It came with the wind, and I distinctly caught the words, spoken in fluent French, with only a slight foreign accentGod so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' The Lord Jesus says: 'He that believeth on me hath "I knelt down beside him, and took his cold hand in mine. He knew me at once. 'Oh, Léon,' he murmured, my mother-my poor mother.' His supporter, by a mute gesture, offered his place to me; but Henri perceived it, and said with an earnestness that sent the lifeblood welling in streams from his side, 'Don't go; stay with me to the last.' So he stayed. lungs; and with "Henri was shot through the every gasping word he uttered his life ebbed faster away. 'Send my love-to my mother-my dearest, dying love-and a lock of—my hair. Ask Renée to tell her to break this tenderly and to comfort her.' Then he looked up from my face into that of the stranger-a noble, manly face-that bent over him with a look of almost womanly tenderness, and whispered, 'Now-tell me more words of Jesus.' "And sweet and wonderful were the words that fell upon his dying ear. I cannot write them here, my time is failing, but they were the words of the Lord Christ himself-words such as human lips never spoke, human love never prompted-words to live upon and to die upon. Why have we not known them from our childhood? This I know, no earthly power or priestly authority shall shut up those words under its seal from my heart again. Dearest mother, and all, read God's words for yourselves. You little know how different is God's truth from the system man has imposed upon us as such. To the parting spirit of Henri de l'Orme those words were life and peace, I am well assured. "Tell me more of the words of Jesus,' were the last words he spoke; but a look of rest and peace and joyful surprise remained upon his pale features even when the spirit ceased to look forth from those dark speaking eyes. Then we laid him gently down, and stood face to face, foes and yet friends. "Tears filled the kind eyes of the stranger as I told him brokenly of the widowed mother, whose only son he had so tenderly cared for and comforted. A few moments we stood over the dead, and at my earnest request he repeated again and again the words that I had first heard, and others like them. What passed besides I cannot stay to repeat. Then I wrapped poor Henri's body in my cloak, and we bore him between us towards a burying party that were at work some distance off. In one end of the long, narrow trench in which the sons of France and of the German fatherland lie together in the last long sleep, we laid him with our own hands, standing side by side till the soldier's rough grave was filled in. "Then the young German turned to depart, but ere he did so he held out his hand, saying solemnly, 'In death all are equal; in Christ all are one. Our next meeting will probably be in his presence. Shall we not part friends in him?' "Yes,' I replied, warmly grasping the offered hand; I shall never forget your kindness to my poor friend, nor the wonderful words you have spoken.' "My Master's words, not mine,' he said; the words that he speaks are indeed spirit and life" In them ye have eternal life." Will you not obey his command to "search the Scriptures" for yourself? He gives it, because, he says, "they testify of me."' "I will indeed.' "Amen,' he replied; and may He who is "the way, the truth, and the life," bring you into the fulness of his grace and peace.' So with another warm hand-grasp we parted. Ever to meet again on earth, I wonder? We met for one short hour on the field red with the blood of his countrymen and mine, shed in deadly strife; yet then and there I loved him. Stranger and foe! yet I loved him. Loved him for the tenderness he showed to that dear dying boy; for the holy words of grace and comfort he spoke; still more by the power of the strange electric thrill of fellow-feeling and sympathy that awoke towards him in my heart. And one of these days, perhaps, I may find myself face to face with him in the ranks, bound in honour to send my steel into the heart in which I would fain hold a friend's place. Such is war. We exchanged cards; and my hope is, when this struggle is over, to meet once more on earth." Vain hope! In the quiet churchyard of a little village among the Vosges mountains is a grassy mound. Beneath it, far away from home and kindred, with a French bullet in the breast, lies all that is mortal of a young German officer, "the only son of his mother," and she too "a widow." And the name cut on the rudely carved cross that stands at its head is the same as the one borne by the card Léon treasured so carefully. Léon's letter ended abruptly here, without any of the special messages of loving inquiry and affection with which he concluded the last. It had evidently been folded and sealed in haste, which accounted for it. As it was, it had been written in the brief hours which should have been given to sleep. Mamma was rather troubled at first at the idea of Léon's presuming to follow the advice of a stranger, and doubtless a heretic, in opposition to the tenets of the Church, by reading the Scriptures for himself; but next day she said, "Renée, these are wonderful words in Léon's letter. So sweet, and loving, and strong. But I am afraid they cannot be truly those of the Lord Christ. You see there is nothing said about what we must do to get that life. It would seem as though, if you just simply believed those words, |