agony drove him; and I forgive him, yes, from the very bottom of my heart, and bid him God-speed, for I know that, just as surely as that Wattie is laid away out of my sight under the brown mould at our feet, so I shall never look on his father's face again in this life . . . and so we say good-bye, reverently, tenderly, knowing it is our last farewell, and then—he goes.
And on the night of the last day but one of August, in the yet early morning, he comes to me in my sleep, with the clear light of the immortals on his brow, and I awake, knowing full well that he is dead. Fourteen days afterwards a letter is brought to me, and the superscription of the envelope is written by a Frenchman. I take it away to my chamber, and sit down with it in my hand: I am in no hurry to read it, for I know; then I break the seal.
"Mademoiselle," the letter begins, "I have a sacred duty to perform to you; I pray you to forgive me that it is so painful an one. . . . Before Sedan I fought side by side with M. Vasher, and it was towards evening that he fell, badly wounded. By good fortune I got him away to a place of safety, and a good Sister came and tended him, but he was past human aid. He gave me your address, and bade me tell you how he died. . . . Mademoiselle, he was the bravest man, the truest gentleman, that ever took sword in hand. . . . He was very restless all night, but he never complained; and—forgive me, I had fallen asleep for a moment—towards the very early morning, I was awakened by his voice ringing out, loud and clear as a trumpet, 'Comin' thro' the rye—God's rye, Nell!' then he fell back dead. We buried him, mademoiselle, at sunset, and laid on his heart a miniature he had always worn, as he bade us. An hour afterwards a lady came; she was very beautiful, and seemed wild with grief. . . . Mademoiselle, she said she was his wife. With humble assurances of my sympathy, I am
