that great and desolating change which had swept over france in the two years and more of calvert's absence was reflected in every heart, in every life left in that wrecked land. on the most insensible, the most frivolous, the most indifferent alike fell the shadow of those terrible times. the sadness and the horror fell on adrienne de st. andré as it fell on so many others, but besides the terror of those days she had to bear a still heavier sorrow. there is no pang which the heart can suffer like the realization, too late, that we have lost what we most prize; that we have missed some great opportunity for happiness which can never come to us again; that we have rejected and passed by what we would now sell our souls to possess. this conviction, slowly borne in upon adrienne, caused her more anguish than she had supposed, in her ignorance, anything in the world could make her feel. the man whose name she bore was scarcely a memory to her. for the first time she knew what love was and realized that she had cared for calvert with all the repressed tenderness and unsounded depths of her heart. her very helplessness, the impossibility to recall him, made him more dear to her by far. a man can stretch out his hand and seize his happiness, but a woman must wait for hers. and if it passes her by she must bear her hurt in silence and as best she can. it was with a sort of blind despair that adrienne thought of calvert and all that she had wilfully thrown away. had he been at her beck and call, fetched and carried for her, she would never have loved him. but the consciousness that he was as proud as she, that, though he was near her for so long, she could not lure him back, that he could master his love and defy her beauty and charm, exercised a fascination over her. and when he left her entirely and was gone away without even seeing her, she suddenly realized how deeply she loved him. we have all had such experiences—we live along, thinking of things after a certain fashion, and suddenly there comes a day when everything seems changed. it was so with adrienne. all things seemed changed to her, and in that bitter necromancy her pride was humbled. wherever she went there was but one dear face she longed to see—one dear face with the quiet eyes she loved. there were days when she so longed to see him, when the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand would have been so inexpressibly dear to her, that it seemed as if the very force of her passion must surely draw him back to her. but he never came. during those two long years something went from her forever. she was not conscious of it at the time—only of the dull ache, and feverish longing, and utter apathy that seized her by turns. there was a subtle difference in all things. 'twas as if some fine spring in the delicate mechanism of her being had broken. it might run on for years, but never again with the perfectness and buoyancy with which it had once moved.

as her life altered so terribly, as all that she had known and valued perished miserably before her eyes day by day, the thought of calvert and of his calm steadiness and sincerity became constant with her. she heard of him from time to time from mr. morris after his frequent visits to london and through letters to her brother and lafayette, to whom calvert wrote periodically, but she had no hope of ever seeing him again, and she suffered in the knowledge. though he seemed cruel to her in his hardness, she was just enough to confess to herself that she so deserved to suffer. but she had learned so much through suffering that a sick distaste for life's lessons grew upon her, and she felt that she wanted no more of them unless knowledge should come to her through love. in her changed life there was little to relieve her suffering, but she devoted herself to the old duchess, who failed visibly day by day, and in that service she could sometimes forget her own unhappiness. she went with the intrepid old lady (who continued to ignore the revolution as much as possible) wherever they could find distraction—to the play and to the houses of their friends still left in paris, where a little dinner or a game of quinze or whist could still be enjoyed.

'twas on one of these occasions that, accompanied by beaufort, as they were returning along the champs elysées from madame de montmorin's, where they had spent the evening, they suddenly heard the report of pistols proceeding from an allée by the road-side.

"a duel!" said beaufort. "'twas near here that poor castries was killed. perhaps it is another friend in trouble, and i had best see," and, calling to the coachman to stop the horses, he jumped out. almost at the same instant a man stumbled out of the allée and ran down the boulevard. beaufort would have followed him, but, as he started to do so, he heard his name called and, looking back, saw another man emerge from the allée and gaze down the almost deserted street. by the dim light of the lantern swung from its great iron post the man recognized monsieur de beaufort and ran forward.

"will you come?" he said, hurriedly. "monsieur calvert is here—wounded by that villain."

"calvert—impossible! he is not in paris."

"but he is!—here," said bertrand, drawing beaufort toward the allée.

adrienne's pale face appeared at the coach-door.

"did i hear someone speak of monsieur calvert?"

beaufort went up to her. "he is here—wounded, i think," he said in a low voice. "i will go and see—you will not be afraid to wait?"

"to wait!—i am going, too," and before he could prevent it she had stepped from the coach and was making her way toward the allée. a ghastly sight met their eyes as they entered the lane. st. aulaire lay upon the ground, one of his companions standing over him, and at a little distance, calvert, white and unconscious, the blood trickling from his left shoulder. with a low cry adrienne knelt on the ground beside him and felt his pulse to see if he still lived. in an instant she was up.

"bring him to the carriage. we must take him to the legation—to mr. morris," she says, in a low tone, to beaufort and bertrand, whom she had recognized as the servant calvert had brought with him to azay-le-roi. without a look at st. aulaire she helped the two to get calvert to the coach, where he was placed on the cushions as easily as possible and held between herself and madame d'azay. she hung over him during the long drive in a sort of passion of pity and love. it was the dearest happiness she had ever known to touch him, to feel his head upon her arm. even though he were dead, she thought, it were worth all her life to have held him so. she scarcely spoke save to ask bertrand if he knew the cause of the encounter, and, when he had told her all he knew of the events of the evening, she relapsed again into silence. they reached the legation as mr. morris's guests were leaving, and in a very few minutes the young man was put to bed and a surgeon called.

though the wound was not fatal—not even very serious—a sharp fever fastened upon calvert, and, in the delirium of the few days following, mr. morris was easily able to learn the cause of the duel. the story he thus gathered from calvert's wild talk he told adrienne and madame d'azay—the two ladies came daily to inquire how the patient was doing—for he thought that they should know of the noble action of the young man, and he felt sure that as soon as calvert was himself again he would request him to keep silence about his share in the matter. he was right, for when calvert was come to his senses again and was beginning to be convalescent—which was at the end of a week—he told mr. morris the particulars of his encounter with st. aulaire, requesting that he make no mention of his part in the affair and begging him to urge d'azay to leave paris. this was the more necessary as st. aulaire, though badly wounded, was fully conscious and might at any moment cause d'azay's arrest, and, moreover, passports were becoming daily harder to obtain.

mr. morris had to confess his inability to comply with calvert's first request, but promised to see d'azay immediately, and, ordering his carriage, in half an hour was on his way to the rue st. honoré. no man in paris knew better than he the risk an aristocrat ran who was denounced to the assembly and remained in paris, nor how difficult it was to get out of the city. he was also aware of rumors concerning d'azay of which he thought best not to tell calvert in his present condition, but which made him seriously fear for d'azay's safety.

on his arrival in the rue st. honoré he found adrienne with the old duchess in one of the smaller salons, but d'azay was not with them, nor did they know where he was. mr. morris had not intended telling the two ladies of his mission, fearing to increase the anxiety which he knew they already felt on d'azay's account, but he suddenly changed his determination and, in a few words, informed them of calvert's urgent message to d'azay and of the reasons for his instant departure from paris.

"he is not safe for a day," he said. "calvert has saved him for the time being, but st. aulaire, though unable himself to go to the assembly and prefer charges against him, can find a dozen tools among the orléans party who will do his dirty work for him. the mere assertion that d'azay is in correspondence with monsieur de condé or any of the counter-revolutionists will send him to prison—or worse. as you know, he, like lafayette, is out of favor with all factions. there is but one thing to do—get him out of paris."

"he will never go!" said the old duchess, proudly.

"he must! listen," said adrienne, rising and laying her hand on mr. morris's arm. "i think he will never ask for a passport himself, but if we could get it for him, if, when he comes in, he should find all in readiness for his going, if we could convince him by these means that his immediate departure was so necessary—" she stood looking at mr. morris, forcing herself to be calm, and with such an expression of courage and determination on her pale face that mr. morris, who had always admired her, was touched and astonished.

"'tis the very best thing to be done, my dear young lady," he said. "we must get the passport for d'azay and force him to quit paris. i think i am not entirely without influence with some of these scoundrels in authority just now. danton, for instance. he is, without doubt, the most powerful man in paris for the moment. suppose we apply to him and his worthy assistant, bertrand, and see what can be done. as danton himself said to me the other evening at the cordelliers club, 'in times of revolution authority falls into the hands of rascals!' bertrand was a good valet, but he knows no more of statescraft than my coachman does. however, what we want is not a statesman but a friend, and i think bertrand may prove to be that. my carriage is waiting below; shall we go at once?"

"oh, we cannot go too soon! i will not lose a moment." she ran out of the room and returned almost instantly with her wraps, for the march day was chill and gloomy. the two set out immediately, mr. morris giving orders to his coachman to drive to the palais de justice, where he hoped to find danton, the deputy attorney-general of the commune of paris, and bertrand, his assistant. as he expected, they were there and, on being announced, he and madame de st. andré were almost instantly admitted to their presence.

there could be no better proof of the unique and powerful position held by the representative of the infant united states than the reception accorded him by this dictator of paris. though mr. morris was known to disapprove openly of the excesses to which the assembly and the revolution had already gone, yet this agitator, this leader of the most violent district of paris, welcomed him with marked deference and consideration. and it was with the deepest regret that he professed himself unable to undertake to obtain, at mr. morris's request, a passport for monsieur d'azay, brother of madame de st. andré, to whom he showed a coldness and brusqueness in marked contrast to his manner toward mr. morris.

"the applications are so numerous, and the emigrant army is becoming so large," and here he darted a keen, mocking look at madame de st. andré out of his small, ardent eyes, "that even were i as influential as monsieur morris is pleased to think me, i would scarcely dare to ask for a passport for monsieur d'azay. moreover," and he bent his great, hideous head for an instant over a pile of papers upon the desk before him, "moreover, monsieur d'azay is particularly wanted in paris just now."

"it is not his wish to leave—indeed, he knows nothing of this application for a passport. it is by my wish and on my affairs that he goes to england," says adrienne, steadily, facing with courage the malignant look of that terrible countenance. monsieur danton ignored these remarks and turned to mr. morris.

"receive my regrets, monsieur, that i can do nothing in this matter. it would give me pleasure to render any favor to an american."

"then we must ask assistance in other quarters," says mr. morris, rising abruptly, and with a show of confidence which he was far from feeling. he had applied in the most powerful and available quarter that he knew of, and he confessed to himself that, having failed here, he had no hope of succeeding elsewhere.

as he and adrienne turned to go, bertrand, who had sat quietly by during this short colloquy, arose and accompanied them toward the door.

"it is a pity madame de st. andré is not an american—is not madame calvert," he says, in a low tone, and fixing a meaning look on adrienne. "passports for the brother-in-law of monsieur calvert, the american, were easy to obtain. it is doubly a pity," and he spoke in a still lower tone, "since i have, on good authority, the news that monsieur d'azay is to be accused of forwarding military intelligence to monsieur de condé in to-morrow's session of the assembly."

the young girl stopped and stood looking at him, transfixed with terror and astonishment.

"what do you mean?" she says, in a frightened, hushed voice.

"this, madame. a long time ago, when i was a soldier in america under lafayette, monsieur calvert did me a great service—he saved my life—he was kind to me. he is the only man, the only person in the world i love, and i have sworn to repay that debt of gratitude. i was with monsieur, as his servant, at azay-le-roi, and i guessed, madame, what passed there between you and him. afterward i was with him in paris, and i saw how he suffered, and i swore, if the thing were ever possible, i would make you suffer as he suffered. there is but one thing i would rather do than make you suffer—and that is to make him happy. the passport for the brother of madame calvert will be ready at six this evening and monsieur will be free to leave paris. do you understand now, madame?"

"it is impossible," she says, faintly, leaning for support on mr. morris, who stood by, unspeakably astonished at the strange scene taking place.

"impossible? then i am sorry," he says. "frankly, there is but one way, madame, for you to obtain the passport you wish, and that is by becoming an american subject, the wife of monsieur calvert. i can interest myself in the matter only on those conditions. i have but to mention to danton my good reasons for serving so close a relation of monsieur calvert, and he will be inclined to interest himself in obtaining the freedom of monsieur d'azay—for such it really is. should he still be disinclined to serve a friend who has stood him well"—and his face darkened ominously and a sinister smile came to his lips—"i have but to recall to his mind a certain scene which took place in the cafe de l'école some years ago in which monsieur calvert was an actor, and i can answer for it that monsieur d'azay leaves paris to-night. shall i do these things or not? if not, i think 'tis sure that, let madame and monsieur morris apply to whom they may, danton and i will see to it that no passport for monsieur d'azay is granted. is it still impossible?" he asks, with an insolent smile.

the girl turned piteously from bertrand to mr. morris and back again, as if seeking some escape from the trap in which she was caught. her pale lips trembled.

"is it impossible?" again asks bertrand, noting her pallor and cruel indecision.

"no, no," she cries, suddenly, shuddering and putting out her hand.

"then all will be in readiness at six, monsieur," says bertrand, addressing himself to mr. morris.

"a word aside with you," he says to bertrand, and, leading adrienne to a seat, he went back to bertrand, who waited for him beside the door.

"what is the meaning of this extraordinary scene?" he asked, sternly.

the man shrugged his shoulders. "just what i have said. you know yourself, monsieur, whether or not i am devoted to monsieur calvert. for madame de st. andré i care less than nothing," he said, snapping his fingers carelessly. "but monsieur calvert loves her—it seems a pretty enough way of making them happy, though 'tis a strange métier for me—arranging love-matches among the nobility! however, stranger things than that are happening in france. besides, it is necessary," he said, his light manner suddenly changing to one more serious. "i swear it is the only way of getting d'azay out of paris. i doubt if even danton, urged on by me, could obtain a passport for him to quit the city. but i can answer for one for the brother of madame calvert, wife of the former secretary of monsieur jefferson, friend of the present minister plenipotentiary from the united states of america to france."

mr. morris looked at the man keenly.

"and suppose this thing were done—i can rely upon you?"

"absolutely. attend a moment," he said, and, going back to where danton still sat at his desk, he spoke with him in low and earnest tones. from where mr. morris stood he could see danton's expression change from sternness and anger to astonishment and interest. in a few moments, with a low exclamation, he got up and, followed by bertrand, came toward mr. morris.

"bertrand has just told me facts which alter this case—which impel me to aid monsieur d'azay if possible," he said; and then, turning to adrienne, who, pale with anxiety and terror, had risen from her seat and drawn near, he went on: "i will use all my power to be of service to the wife of the man who once showed a courtesy to mine." at his words the girl drew back and blushed deeply over her whole fair face. "i swore that i would reward him if possible, and i do so to-day. i also swore to reward his companion, monsieur de beaufort—the time is not yet come for that, but it will," and he smiled in so terrible a fashion that adrienne could have cried out in fear. the fierce malignity of his look so filled mr. morris with disgust that he could scarce bear to speak to him.

"we will return at six," he said, at length, and leading adrienne to the door that the painful interview might end.

"at six," said danton.

they made their way out and found mr. morris's coach. in the carriage the courage which had sustained the young girl gave way.

mr. morris laid a kindly hand upon her arm. "be calm. a way is found to save d'azay, and surely it is no great trial to become an american subject," he said, smiling a little and looking keenly at adrienne.

"i do not know how i shall dare to ask this great sacrifice of him," said she, in a low tone. "true, he risked his life for d'azay, but that is not so great a sacrifice as to marry a woman he does not love."

"i think he does love you still," said mr. morris, very gently. "he is not like some of us—he is not one to forget easily. he is silent and constant. he has told me that he loved you."

but she only shook her head. "i have no hope that he loves me still."

"shall i tell him of this strange plan, of the cruel position you find yourself in? i can prepare him——"

"no," she said, in a low tone, "i—i will see him myself and at once."

she sat quiet and thoughtful for the rest of the drive until the coach drew up before the legation. after the first fear and despair had passed, a wave of happiness swept over her that made her blush and then pale as it ebbed. perhaps, after all, his love for her might not be dead; at all events a curious fate had brought it about that she should see him again and hear him speak and learn for herself if he loved her. she remembered, with a sudden shock, the words she had spoken at azay-le-roi—that should she change her mind it would be she who would ask him to marry her. she could have laughed aloud with joy to think that fate had played her such a trick. she remembered with a sort of shamed wonder the proud condescension with which she had treated him. she felt now as if she could fling herself before him on her knees and beg him to give her back his love. but did he still love her? at the thought an icy pang of apprehension and fear seized her, and her heart almost stopped beating. it was not alone her own happiness that was at stake, but a life that she held dear, too, was in the hands of one whom she had misprized, to whom she had shown no pity or tenderness.

"i will go up with you to the library, where i think we shall find calvert, and then i will leave you," said mr. morris as the coach stopped.

they went up the broad stairway together and mr. morris knocked at the library door. a voice answered "come," and he entered, leaving adrienne in the shadow of the archway. a bright fire was burning on the open hearth and before it sat calvert. he looked ill, and his left arm and shoulder were bandaged and held in a sling. he wore no coat—indeed, he could get none over the bandages—and the whiteness of his linen and the bright flame of the fire made him look very pale. at mr. morris's entrance he glanced up smiling and made an effort to go toward him.

"don't move, my boy," said mr. morris, hastily—"i have brought someone to see you. she—she is here," and motioning adrienne to enter, he went out, softly closing the door behind him.

for an instant calvert could not see who his visitor was, for, though the firelight was bright, the room was much in shadow from the grayness of the afternoon and the heavy hangings at the long windows. as the young girl came forward, however, he recognized her in spite of her extreme pallor and the change which two years and a half had wrought. concealing, as best he could, the shock of surprise and the sudden faintness which attacked him at her unexpected presence (for he was still very weak and ill), he bowed low and placed a chair for her. but she shook her head and remained standing beside a little table in the centre of the room, one hand resting upon it for support. she was so agitated, and so fearful lest calvert should notice it and guess its true cause, that she summoned all her pride and old imperiousness to her aid. looking at her so, he wondered how it was that mr. morris had found her so softened. looking at him so, weak and ill and hurt for one she loved, she could have thrown herself at his feet and kissed his wounded arm. it was with difficulty she commanded her voice sufficiently to speak.

"i am come, mr. calvert," she said, at length, hurriedly, and in so constrained a tone that he could scarcely hear her, "i am come on an errand for which the sole excuse is your own nobility. had you not already risked your life for my brother, i could not dare to ask this still greater sacrifice. indeed, i think i cannot, as it is," she said, clasping her hands and suddenly turning away.

calvert was inexpressibly surprised by this exhibition of deep emotion in her. he had never seen her so moved before. "there is nothing i would not do for d'azay, believe me," he said, earnestly. "i had hoped to avert this danger from him, but, unfortunately, i fear i have only postponed it. is there anything i can do? if so, tell me what it is."

"it is nothing less than the sacrifice of your whole life," she said, in a low tone, and drawing back in the shadow of one of the windows. "it is this—i am come to ask you to marry me, mr. calvert, that by becoming an american subject i may save my brother. we—we have just been to obtain a passport for him to leave the city—he is to be accused in the assembly to-morrow," she says, rapidly and breathlessly. "a passport for monsieur d'azay is refused unconditionally, but one is promised for the brother of madame calvert, the american." she was no longer pale. a burning blush was dyeing her whole face crimson, and she drew still farther back into the shadow of the window. she laid one hand on the velvet curtain to steady herself.

calvert gazed at her in unspeakable surprise. for an instant a wild hope awoke within him, only to die. she had come but to save her brother, as she had said, and the painfulness of her duty was only too apparent.

"and—and who has imposed this strange condition?" he says, at length, quietly, mastering himself.

"your servant bertrand, who is all-powerful with danton and who, he promises, shall obtain the passport by six this evening."

"were i not wounded and weak from fever, madame, believe me, by that hour he would deeply repent having caused you this humiliation," says calvert, bitterly.

"my humiliation is a slight thing in comparison with the sacrifice i ask of you, monsieur."

"and what of yours?" he asks, gloomily, but he did not look at her. had he done so he would have seen love, not self-sacrifice, shining in her appealing eyes.

"but i have influence over this fellow—he is devoted to me—he shall do this thing without demanding so great, so fabulous a price for his services," he goes on, half-speaking to himself.

"'tis indeed a fabulous price," she says, paling a little at calvert's words and drawing herself up proudly. "but he fancies he is serving you by imposing this condition, and i confess that i—i dared not tell him that you no longer loved me, lest i should lose the one hold i had on him. for d'azay, for me, he will do absolutely nothing." from the shadow of the curtain she watched calvert's face for some sign that she was mistaken, that after all he did still love her, that what she had asked of him would be no life-long sacrifice, but the dearest joy. but none came. he stood quiet and thoughtful, looking down into the firelight and betraying nothing of the conflict going on within him. his one thought was to find a way out of this horrible trap for her, or, failing that, to make it as easy as possible for her. he stilled the wild exultation he felt that was making his feverish pulse leap and sink by turns. he tried to put away temptation from him—to think only for her. this incredible, unlooked-for happiness was not for him. he searched about in his mind for words that would make her understand that he knew what anguish had driven her to this extremity; that would convince her that she had nothing to fear from him and that he would meet her as he felt sure she wished him to meet her.

"what he asks is madness," he said, at length. "i know only too well the insurmountable objections you have to doing what he demands; if i can convince him of these—if i can convince him that it is also not my wish—that he can best serve me by not insisting on this thing——"

"then, indeed, i think all is lost," said adrienne, quietly. "he professes that he can do nothing for the french emigrant d'azay, only for the brother of the american, calvert. there is no hope left for us except through himself and danton, since it is already known that d'azay is to be accused to-morrow, and, indeed, there is scarce time to seek other aid," she added, despairingly.

"is mr. morris of the opinion that this is the best thing to be done?" asked calvert, in a low voice.

"he thinks it is the only way to save d'azay." suddenly she came forward from the embrasure of the window and stood once more beside the table, her face lighted up by the glow of the fire. "believe me, i know how great a thing i ask," she says, quite wildly, and covering her eyes with her hand. "i ask you now what you once asked me and what i flung away." calvert looked up startled, but not being able to read her face, which was concealed, he dropped his head again, and she went on: "if it is possible for you to make this sacrifice, everything i can do to make it bearable shall be done—we need never see each other again—i can follow d'azay to whatever retreat he may find——"

"don't distress yourself so," said calvert, gently, interrupting her. he looked at the appealing, despairing woman before him, she who had been so brilliant, so untouched by sorrow, and a great desire to serve her and a great compassion for her came over him. there was pity for himself, too, in his thoughts, for he had schooled himself for so long to believe that the woman he loved did not love him, and could never love him, that no slightest idea that he was mistaken came to him now to help lighten his sacrifice. as he realized all this he thought, not without a pang, of the future and of the unknown possible happiness it might hold for him and which he was renouncing forever. in the long days to come, he had thought, he might be able to forget that greater happiness denied him and be as contented as many another man, but even that consolation he could now no longer look forward to.

"do not distress yourself," he said again, quietly. "be assured that i shall make no effort to see you—indeed, i think i shall leave paris myself as soon as this wound permits," and he touched his bandaged arm. "in the last few days i have thought seriously of entering military service again under lafayette. he is a good soldier, if a bad statesman, and has need of officers and men in this crisis, if ever general had."

as he turned away and touched a small bell on the table, adrienne's hand dropped at her side and she gave him so strange, so sad a glance that had he looked at her he would have seen that in her pale face and miserable eyes which he had longed to see two years before. she took a step forward—for an instant the wild thought crossed her mind of flinging herself down before him, of confessing her love for him, but sorrow and trouble had not yet wholly humbled that proud nature. with a great effort she drew back. "will you, then, serve us again?" she said, and her voice sounded far off and strange in her own ears.

"can you doubt it? i will send for mr. morris and we will leave everything to him."

in a few moments he came in, looking anxiously from calvert to madame de

st. andré and back again.

"we are agreed upon this matter," said calvert, quietly, interpreting mr. morris's look, "providing, in your opinion, it is a necessity. is the case as desperate as madame de st. andré deems it, and is this the best remedy for it?"

"'tis the only remedy, i think," replied mr. morris. "i fear there is no doubt as to d'azay's fate when arraigned, as he will be to-morrow. too many of his friends have already suffered that same fate to leave any reasonable hope that his will be other or happier." he drew calvert to one side and spoke in a low tone. "indeed, i think 'tis more than probable that he is guilty of the charges preferred against him and would go over to monsieur de condé had he the chance. i have known for a long while that he has become thoroughly disgusted with the trend of affairs here, and has no thought now but to serve the king. i think he has broken with lafayette entirely since the affair of st. cloud, and his change of political faith is only too well known here. if he does not leave paris to-night, he will never leave it."

"then," said mr. calvert, "i am ready to do my part."

"no, no, 'tis impossible that this thing should be," broke out mr. morris, looking at the young man's pale, gloomy face. "i had hoped that it would be the greatest happiness; was i, then, mistaken?"

calvert laid his hand on the elder man's shoulder.

"hush, she must not hear. 'tis an agreement we have entered into," he says, hurriedly. "will you call a priest and send for the duchess and d'azay?"

"the bishop of autun has just come in," said mr. morris, after a moment's silence, and pressing the young man's hand, "and there is no time to send for anyone. i will go myself and ask him to come up."

they came in together in a very few moments, his grace of autun grave and asking no questions (from which calvert rightly argued that mr. morris had confided in him), but with a concerned and kindly air toward the young man, for whom he had always entertained an especial liking. in a simple and impressive manner he repeated the marriage service in the presence of mr. morris and some of the servants of the household, called in to be witnesses, adrienne kneeling beside the couch on which calvert lay, for he was too weak and ill to stand longer.

the strange scene was quickly over, the two parted almost without a word, adrienne being led away by mr. morris to the hotel de ville, and mr. calvert remanded to bed by the surgeon, who was just arrived to dress his wound.