hands.

At Laughton the babe is on the breast of the fair mother, and the father
sits beside the bed; and mother and father dispute almost angrily whether
mother or father those soft, rounded features of slumbering infancy
resemble most. At the red house, near the market-town, there is a
hospitable bustle. William is home earlier than usual. Within the last
hour, Susan has been thrice into every room. Husband and wife are now
watching at the window. The good Fieldens, with a coach full of
children, are expected, every moment, on a week's visit at least.

In the cafe in the Boulevard du Temple sit Pierre Guillot, the Chouan,
and another of the old band of brigands whom George Cadoudal had mustered
in Paris. There is an expression of content on Guillot's countenance,--
it seems more open than usual, and there is a complacent smile on his
lips. He is whispering low to his friend in the intervals of eating,--an
employment pursued with the hearty gusto of a hungry man. But his friend
does not seem to sympathize with the cheerful feelings of his comrade; he
is pale, and there is terror on his face; and you may see that the
journal in his hand trembles like a leaf.

In the gardens of the Tuileries some score or so of gossips group
together.

"And no news of the murderer?" asked one.

"No; but the man who had been friend to Robespierre must have made secret
enemies enough."

"Ce pauvre Dalibard! He was not mixed up with the Terrorists,