we flew upon her! how we embraced her! how we laughed and clapped our hands! 'Vive la République!' she cried in reply. Henri and M. Brunel and Cerise responded to the cry-yes, and Désiré too; and at last I!—yes, I—Aurée, joined them in their shout.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE NATIONAL GUARD.

E were all very idle now, and our mother did not hinder us from going out into the streets with Clémence, for every one was out. Paris was like one great jour de fête. Our friends and relatives from the Jardin des Plantes, and our acquaintances among the families of those employed in the Halle au Vin, were all to be met with on the Boulevards or the quais. No one who was able to walk about stayed at home; the cafés were all filled and drove a thriving trade, for prices had already risen much; fruit and eggs were half as dear again as usual, and one paid eight francs for a cold roast fowl of an ordinary size; but as we seldom bought fowls, that circumstance did not trouble us. In fact no one, excepting the relatives of such as had perished at Worth or other places in Alsace, ap

peared to be troubled about anything; and even these gloried in the prospect of revenge. A stranger come suddenly amongst us could not but have supposed France must have gained a great victory; every one laughed, and sang, and shook hands. At one time a crowd of the National Guard, who were now being all put under arms, passed us singing the 'Marseillaise,' all within hearing joining in the refrain, till one might almost believe the very stones had caught up and responded to the national hymn. At another time. it was the name of Rochefort that rent the air. 'Vive Rochefort' became almost as popular a cry as 'Vive la République.' As for the Prussians and their needleguns, where were they?

On their way to Paris!

Yes! on their way to Paris very certainly; but what good would that do them when every one in Paris-man, woman, and child-shouted aloud, 'Not one inch of our land, not one stone of our fortresses shall they have!' We were all infected now with the same spirit, and all joined in the same shouts and songs.

Even grand'mère did not remonstrate, although she remembered other efforts at a Republic, and was besides, a staunch Orleanist. She had helped to nurse one of the grandchildren of the good old Louis Philippe, and she was never tired of relating to us

pretty tales of the Regal Court and its efforts to make this great people happy.

Paris tired of this outburst of excitement and enthusiasm in a few days, and then we all began to forget the romance, and ponder over the reality of our situation.

For me, mine was sad enough. I had received one little letter from Emile two days after his departure. It was dated from the camp at Châlons, and was very tender and very pretty.

I read it and re-read it, till I not only knew the words, but each individual letter of which they were composed by heart, in their appearance as well as their meaning. I had answered it as kindly as discretion would permit me.

At last I had laid my treasure away for safe preservation, with the few articles of value which I possessed, in a little satin-wood box given me by my godmother. Now two weeks had gone past since I received it, and there was no more news of my dear friend. Nor had either his parents or Blanchard's wife had any news of them since. Now a new sight was to be seen in Paris. It was announced to us by Clémence.

New arrivals,' she said, 'had taken place.'

'Troops from the provinces, I hope?' said mother. 'The Bretons are hourly expected,' said Clémence;

'but it is to the arrival of an ambulance train filled with the wounded that I allude.'

'Where are they from?' I cried.

'From Alsace; others are expected in from Sedan.' 'I shall go to meet them,' I said, much excited; 'who knows but Emile-' and then I broke into sobs and could speak no more.

'No, my child,' spoke my mother, 'you shall not go; you could not sustain the sights you might behold.'

'No, truly,' said Clémence, shuddering.

'Have you seen any of the wounded?' asked Cerise; and is it very dreadful?'

'Very,' replied Clémence; 'but I'd rather not speak of it. I mean to keep up my heart, for I must and help to nurse them.'

go

'You, Clémence!' we all exclaimed.

'Yes; why not? I am strong; my father has learned from late experience to spare me. He will consent, I feel sure.'

'I should like to go also,' I said.

'You are too young, Aurée, and not sufficiently strong,' said mamma.

'And, besides, you are too much inclined to shed tears,' said Clémence; 'you have a too great sensibility. For me, I never weep; I have no tears. No, my dear, you shall help to take care of my father for me.'