IT was a dark night. The rain was pouring in torrents.

Late in the evening a skirmishing party of the French and askirmishing party of the Germans had met, by accident, near thelittle village of Lagrange, close to the German frontier. In thestruggle that followed, the French had (for once) got the betterof the enemy. For the time, at least, a few hundreds out of thehost of the invaders had been forced back over the frontier. Itwas a trifling affair, occurring not long after the great Germanvictory of Weissenbourg, and the newspapers took little or nonotice of it.

Captain Arnault, commanding on the French side, sat alone in oneof the cottages of the village, inhabited by the miller of thedistrict. The Captain was reading, by the light of a solitarytallow-candle, some intercepted dispatches taken from theGermans. He had suffered the wood fire, scattered over the largeopen grate, to burn low; the red embers only faintly illuminateda part of the room. On the floor behind him lay some of themiller's empty sacks. In a corner opposite to him was themiller's solid walnut-wood bed. On the walls all around him werethe miller's colored prints, representing a happy mixture ofdevotional and domestic subjects. A door of communication leadinginto the kitchen of the cottage had been torn from its hinges,and used to carry the men wounded in the skirmish from the field.They were now comfortably laid at rest in the kitchen, under thecare of the French surgeon and the English nurse attached to theambulance. A piece of coarse canvas screened the opening betweenthe two rooms in place of the door. A second door, leading fromthe bed-chamber into the yard, was locked; and the wooden shutterprotecting the one window of the room was carefully barred.Sentinels, doubled in number, were placed at all the outposts.The French commander had neglected no precaution which couldreasonably insure for himself and for his men a quiet andcomfortable night.

Still absorbed in his perusal of the dispatches, and now and thenmaking notes of what he read by the help of writing materialsplaced at his side, Captain Arnault was interrupted by theappearance of an intruder in the room. Surgeon Surville, enteringfrom the kitchen, drew aside the canvas screen, and approachedthe little round table at which his superior officer was sitting.

"What is it?" said the captain, sharply.

"A question to ask," replied the surgeon. "Are we safe for thenight?"

"Why do you want to know?" inquired the captain, suspiciously.

The surgeon pointed to the kitchen, now the hospital devoted tothe wounded men.

"The poor fellows are anxious about the next few hours," hereplied. "They dread a surprise, and they ask me if there is anyreasonable hope of their having one night's rest. What do youthink of the chances?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders. The surgeon persisted.

"Surely you ought to know?" he said.

"I know that we are in possession of the village for thepresent," retorted Captain Arnault, "and I know no more. Here arethe papers of the enemy." He held them up and shook themimpatiently as he spoke. "They give me no information that I canrely on. For all I can tell to the contrary, the main body of theGermans, outnumbering us ten to one, may be nearer this cottagethan the main body of the French. Draw your own conclusions. Ihave nothing more to say."

Having answered in those discouraging terms, Captain Arnault goton his feet, drew the hood of his great-coat over his head, andlit a cigar at the candle.

"Where are you going?" asked the surgeon.

"To visit the outposts."

"Do you want this room for a little while?"

"Not for some hours to come. Are you thinking of moving any ofyour wounded men in here?"

"I was thinking of the English lady," answered the surgeon. "Thekitchen is not quite the place for her. She would be morecomfortable here; and the English nurse might keep her company."

Captain Arnault smiled, not very pleasantly. "They are two finewomen," he said, "and Surgeon Surville is a ladies' man. Let themcome in, if they are rash enough to trust themselves here withyou." He checked himself on the point of going out, and lookedback distrustfully at the lighted candle. "Caution the women," hesaid, "to limit the exercise of their curiosity to the inside ofthis room."

"What do you mean?"

The captain's forefinger pointed significantly to the closedwindow-shutter.

"Did you ever know a woman who could resist looking out ofwindow?" he asked. "Dark as it is, sooner or later these ladiesof yours will feel tempted to open that shutter. Tell them Idon't want the light of the candle to betray my headquarters tothe German scouts. How is the weather? Still raining?"

"Pouring."

"So much the better. The Germans won't see us." With thatconsolatory remark he unlocked the door leading into the yard,and walked out.

The surgeon lifted the canvas screen and called into the kitchen:

"Miss Merrick, have you time to take a little rest?"

"Plenty of time," answered a soft voice with an underlyingmelancholy in it, plainly distinguishable though it had onlyspoken three words.

"Come in, then," continued the surgeon, "and bring the Englishlady with you. Here is a quiet room all to yourselves."

He held back the canvas, and the two women appeared.

The nurse led the way--tall, lithe, graceful--attired in heruniform dress of neat black stuff, with plain linen collar andcuffs, and with the scarlet cross of the Geneva Conventionembroidered on her left shoulder. Pale and sad, her expressionand manner both eloquently suggestive of suppressed suffering andsorrow, there was an innate nobility in the carriage of thiswoman's head, an innate grandeur in the gaze of her large grayeyes and in the lines of her finely proportioned face, which madeher irresistibly striking and beautiful, seen under anycircumstances and clad in any dress. Her companion, darker incomplexion and smaller in stature, possessed attractions whichwere quite marked enough to account for the surgeon's politeanxiety to shelter her in the captain's room. The common consentof mankind would have declared her to be an unusually prettywoman. She wore the large gray cloak that covered her from headto foot with a grace that lent its own attractions to a plain andeven a shabby article of dress. The languor in her movements, andthe uncertainty of tone in her voice as she thanked the surgeonsuggested that she was suffering from fatigue. Her dark eyessearched the dimly-lighted room timidly, and she held fast by thenurse's arm with the air of a woman whose nerves had beenseverely shaken by some recent alarm.

"You have one thing to remember, ladies," said the surgeon."Beware of opening the shutter, for fear of the light being seenthrough the window. For the rest, we are free to make ourselvesas comfortable here as we can. Compose yourself, dear madam, andrely on the protection of a Frenchman who is devoted to you!" Hegallantly emphasized his last words by raising the hand of theEnglish lady to his lips. At the moment when he kissed it thecanvas screen was again drawn aside. A person in the service ofthe ambulance appeared, announcing that a bandage had slipped,and that one of the wounded men was to all appearance bleeding todeath. The surgeon, submitting to destiny with the worst possiblegrace, dropped the charming Englishwoman's hand, and returned tohis duties in the kitchen. The two ladies were left together inthe room.

"Will you take a chair, madam?" asked the nurse.

"Don't callme 'madam,'" returned the young lady, cordially. "My name isGrace Roseberry. What is your name?"

The nurse hesitated. "Not a pretty name, like yours," she said,and hesitated again. "Call me 'Mercy Merrick,' " she added, aftera moment's consideration.

Had she given an assumed name? Was there some unhappy celebrityattached to her own name? Miss Roseberry did not wait to askherself these questions. "How can I thank you," she exclaimed,gratefully, "for your sisterly kindness to a stranger like me?"

"I have only done my duty," said Mercy Merrick, a little coldly."Don't speak of it."

"I must speak of it. What a situation you found me in when theFrench soldiers had driven the Germans away! Mytraveling-carriage stopped; the horses seized; I myself in astrange country at nightfall, robbed of my money and my luggage,and drenched to the skin by the pouring rain! I am indebted toyou for shelter in this place--I am wearing your clothes--Ishould have died of the fright and the exposure but for you. Whatreturn can I make for such services as these?"

Mercy placed a chair for her guest near the captain's table, andseated herself, at some little distance, on an old chest in acorner of the room. "May I ask you a question?" she said,abruptly.

"A hundred questions," cried Grace, "if you like." She looked atthe expiring fire, and at the dimly visible figure of hercompanion seated in the obscurest corner of the room. "Thatwretched candle hardly gives any light," she said, impatiently."It won't last much longer. Can't we make the place morecheerful? Come out of your corner. Call for more wood and morelights."

Mercy remained in her corner and shook her head. "Candles andwood are scarce things here," she answered. "We must be patient,even if we are left in the dark. Tell me," she went on, raisingher quiet voice a little, "how came you to risk crossing thefrontier in wartime?"

Grace's voice dropped when she answered the question. Grace'smomentary gayety of manner suddenly left her.

"I had urgent reasons," she said, "for returning to England."

"Alone?" rejoined the other. "Without any one to protect you?"

Grace's head sank on her bosom. "I have left my onlyprotector--my father--in the English burial-ground at Rome," sheanswered simply. "My mother died, years since, in Canada."

The shadowy figure of the nurse suddenly changed its position onthe chest. She had started as the last word passed MissRoseberry's lips.

"Do you know Canada?" asked Grace.

"Well," was the brief answer--reluctantly given, short as it was.

"Were you ever near Port Logan?"

"I once lived within a few miles of Port Logan."

"When?"

"Some time since." With those words Mercy Merrick shrank backinto her corner and changed the subject. "Your relatives inEngland must be very anxious about you," she said.

Grace sighed. "I have no relatives in England. You can hardlyimagine a person more friendless than I am. We went away fromCanada, when my father's health failed, to try the climate ofItaly, by the doctor's advice. His death has left me not onlyfriendless but poor." She paused, and took a leather letter-casefrom the pocket of the large gray cloak which the nurse had lentto her. "My prospects in life," she resumed, "are all containedin this little case. Here is the one treasure I contrived toconceal when I was robbed of my other things."

Mercy could just see the letter-case as Grace held it up in thedeepening obscurity of the room. "Have you got money in it?" sheasked.

"No; only a few family papers, and a letter from my father,introducing me to an elderly lady in England--a connection of hisby marriage, whom I have never seen. The lady has consented toreceive me as her companion and reader. If I don't return toEngland soon, some other person may get the place."

"Have you no other resource?"

"None. My education has been neglected--we led a wild life in thefar West. I am quite unfit to go out as a governess. I amabsolutely dependent on this stranger, who receives me for myfather's sake." She put the letter-case back in the pocket of hercloak, and ended her little narrative as unaffectedly as she hadbegun it. "Mine is a sad story, is it not?" she said.

The voice of the nurse answered her suddenly and bitterly inthese strange words:

"There are sadder stories than yours. There are thousands ofmiserable women who would ask for no greater blessing than tochange places with you."

Grace started. "What can there possibly be to envy in such a lotas mine?"

"Your unblemished character, and your prospect of beingestablished honorably in a respectable house."

Grace turned in her chair, and looked wonderingly into the dimcorner of the room.

"How strangely you say that!" she exclaimed. There was no answer;the shadowy figure on the chest never moved. Grace roseimpulsively, and drawing her chair after her, approached thenurse. "Is there some romance in your life?" she asked. "Why haveyou sacrificed yourself to the terrible duties which I find youperforming here? You interest me indescribably. Give me yourhand."

Mercy shrank back, and refused the offered hand.

"Are we not friends?" Grace asked, in astonishment.

"We can never be friends."

"Why not?"

The nurse was dumb. Grace called to mind the hesitation that shehad shown when she had mentioned her name, and drew a newconclusion from it. "Should I be guessing right," she asked,eagerly, "if I guessed you to be some great lady in disguise?"

Mercy laughed to herself--low and bitterly. "I a great lady!" shesaid, contemptuously. "For Heaven's sake, let us talk ofsomething else!"

Grace's curiosity was thoroughly roused. She persisted. "Oncemore," she whispered, persuasively, "let us be friends." Shegently laid her hand as she spoke on Mercy's shoulder. Mercyroughly shook it off. There was a rudeness in the action whichwould have offended the most patient woman living. Grace drewback indignantly. "Ah!" she cried, "you are cruel."

"I am kind," answered the nurse, speaking more sternly than ever.

"Is it kind to keep me at a distance? I have told you my story."

The nurse's voice rose excitedly. "Don't tempt me to speak out,"she said; "you will regret it."

Grace declined to accept the warning. "I have placed confidencein you," she went on. "It is ungenerous to lay me under anobligation, and then to shut me out of your confidence inreturn."

"You _will_ have it?" said Mercy Merrick. "You _shall_ have it!Sit down again." Grace's heart began to quicken its beat inexpectation of the disclosure that was to come. She drew herchair closer to the chest on which the nurse was sitting. With afirm hand Mercy put the chair back to a distance from her. "Notso near me!" she said, harshly.

"Why not?"

"Not so near," repeated the sternly resolute voice. "Wait tillyou have heard what I have to say."

Grace obeyed without a word more. There was a momentary silence.A faint flash of light leaped up from the expiring candle, andshowed Mercy crouching on the chest, with her elbows on herknees, and her face hidden in her hands. The next instant theroom was buried in obscurity. As the darkness fell on the twowomen the nurse spoke.