a corner. A man was kneeling beside her. They came near, and saw that the
woman was Cynthie.

"Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by the shoulder.
At the sound of his voice the woman's eyes opened.

"Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" she said, and reached up a hand.

Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: "Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, my
poor Cynthie!" he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and
his voice, as hers, said indescribable things.

Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; she slept. Fingall laid
her down with a sob in his throat; then he sat up and clutched Pierre's
hand.

"In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard all," he said, pointing
to her, "and I came to find her. I was just in time; I found her
yesterday."

"She knew you?" whispered Pierre.

"Yes, but this fever came on." He turned and looked at her, and,
kneeling, smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. "Poor girl!" he
said; "poor girl!"

"She will get well?" asked Pierre.

"God grant it!" Fingall replied. "She is better--better."