would set free;--and from this interview she went away, not to
solitude, and the formation of secret plans, but, as became the
daughter of Adolphus and Pauline Montier, she went quietly, with that
repose of manner which distinguished her through almost every event,
back to her mother's chamber.

There stood Adolphus Montier, drummer to the regiment, jailer to the
prisoner, father of Elizabeth,--loving man, whichever way you looked
at him. He had his French horn in his hands, and was about to raise
it to his lips; in a moment more a blast would have rung through the
house, for Adolphus was in one of his tempestuously happy moods.

But his daughter's entrance arrested his purpose. Say, rather, the
expression of her face performed that feat. He saw, likewise, the
paper which she carried, the pencilled sketch,--and he followed her
with his eyes when she crossed the room and placed it on the mantel
under the engraving of the city of Fatherland. This act took the
parents to the fireplace, for discussion and criticism of their
daughter's work, and of the two homes now brought into contrasted
connection.

"But you have left out the prison," was the comment of Adolphus.

"I am glad of that," said Pauline.

"But it is part of the island."

"It ought to be left out, though," maintained his wife.

"Where would you keep _him_, then?" asked Adolphus, a broad smile