strangers personally, yet linked together by the sympathy arising from
mutual danger.




CHAPTER VII.


"Letters from home at last," said Arthur Bernard, as he entered the
private salon of an hotel, located in a pretty town in the south of
France.

"I had begun to think our friends had quite forgotten us," he continued,
addressing his sister, who, seated in a recess formed by a large
bow-window, had been anxiously watching for his return.

"You have not opened any of them yet," she said, as she came eagerly
forward to receive her share.

"No;" was the reply. "I knew how anxiously you were waiting, and
hastened that we might read them together."

"Always thoughtful, dear brother, of my comfort, you quite spoil me,"
said Ella, with an affectionate smile, but in a tone, whose subdued
sound, proved a striking contrast to her former vivacity.

For the next few moments silence reigned in the apartment, for each were
busily engaged in perusing their respective epistles.