"_It took her_!"--neither did it seem incredible to him when she
assured him that the new house was like home. He honestly believed
that with the child--child he considered her--all things were
possible.

What he had lacked and missed so long that the restoration had a
charm of novelty about it, added to its own excellency, was now the
prisoner's portion. Good manners, kind and courteous voices, greeted
eyes and ears once more. As in the days of Joan Laval, a woman was
now sometimes in attendance on the prisoner. But in not one
particular did Pauline Montier resemble Joan Laval. She called
herself a soldier's wife, and was exact and brave accordingly. She
was thoughtful of her husband's charge, and when she paused in her
efforts for his comfort and content, it was because she had
exhausted the means within her reach, but not her wit in devising.

The effect was soon manifest. The prisoner received this care and
sympathy as he might have received the ministration of angels. The
attendance was almost entirely confined to Montier and his wife, but
now and then Elizabeth also could serve him. She served him with her
heart, with unobtrusive zeal that was exhaustless as the zeal of love.
Unobserved, she watched, as well as waited on him; and oh, how
jealous and impatient of time and authority did she become! Her pity
knew no limit; it beamed from her eyes, spoke through her voice, was
unceasing in activity. He was to her a romance terrible and sweet, a
romance that had more abundant fascination than the world could show
beside.

She went up to his room one morning, carrying his breakfast. Her
father had been ordered to the barracks, and her mother was not well;