'Father Piret, madame.'

'What is it?'

'Je n'sais.'

'It is Beranger,--'The Prisoner of War,' said Rodney Prescott. 'But
you omitted the last verse, mademoiselle; may I ask why?'

'More sad so,' answered Jeannette. 'Marie she die now.'

'You wish her to die?'

'Mais oui: she die for love; c'est beau!'

And there flashed a glance from the girl's eyes that thrilled through
me, I scarcely knew why. I looked towards Rodney, but he was back in
the shadow again.

The hours passed. 'I must go,' said Jeannette, drawing aside the
curtain. Clouds were still driving across the sky, but the snow had
ceased falling, and at intervals the moon shone out over the cold
white scene; the March wind continued on its wild career toward the
south.

'I will send for Antoine,' I said, rising, as Jeannette took up her
fur mantle.

'The old man is sick, to-day,' said Rodney. 'It would not be safe for