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"I will," said Edward, with animation: "you stood my friend because I was oppressed. I had no other claim upon you. I will write an account of the whole affair to my father. He is generous, and will confide in you."

"And I," said Conrad, "have a commission that will prove you are no impostor. "Look!" said he, "it is the picture of my mother. I always wear it next my heart. She was as good as an angel, and I feel as though no evil could come from where she is. You shall deliver this to Alice, and tell her I sent it."

"Be it so!" exclaimed De Lancey. "If I survive you, I will seek out your father and offer my services. If I die, I bequeath to the survivors my knapsack and its contents You will find a hundred Napoleons in it. It is all I am worth, and now let us to bed and sleep till morning."

"Not yet," said Conrad; "we must do all that is to be done this evening. Good landlord! bring me pen and ink, and you shall be our witness." He then wrote

"DEAR AND HONOURED FATHER!

"When you receive this letter, your three sons will be no more. Frederick de Lancey is the bearer of it. He has done our dear Edward a signal service, and I have thought him trustworthy to convey to Alice the picture of my mother. My heart bleeds when I think of you, without one prop for your old age, save our innocent and helpless sister. We are all satisfied De Lancey would be a faithful son to you if you will permit him to be. In case of his death tomorrow-and the chances of war are alike to all-he has bequeathed to us all he is worth, and it is the earnest wish of my brothers as well as myself, that if he should be the only survivor, you would adopt him ; and if he and sister Alice should fancy each other that he may become a son in reality.

"In case he is the sole survivor, I bequeath him all my part of the inheritance, and my brothers do the same-always in deference to you-entreating you will consider this as our last will and testament. "CONRAD DE CASTELLON. "PHILIP DE CASTELLON. "EDWARD DE CASTELLON.

"Witness, JEAN PIPON."

The letter was sealed and directed to the father. Then Conrad, taking the miniature, which was fastened to his neck by a black ribbon, pressed it to his lips, and his brothers did the same.

De Lancey was lodged in the room with the Conscripts. In a few moments his breathing denoted that he had sunk into that calm and tranquil sleep that belongs to health of body and mind. Philip and Edward, too, forgot for a while their gloomy presentiments, and slept quietly. But not so Conrad. He felt a responsibility pressing upon him that he could neither avert nor control. The rain continued to

pour in torrents, and the wind shook the miserable dwelling to its foundation. Amid the tumult of the elements, the clattering of horses' hoofs, the shrill notes of the trumpet, and the heavy roll of the drum, might be distinguished. New companies were entering the village, and the shouts of Vive l'Empereur still resound in his ear, Conrad gazed upon his sleeping brothers, and his soul melted as he thought of them on the field of battle.

The morning dawned upon his unclosed eyes, when, with that weariness, which seems almost like perverseness, nature could resist no longer, and he fell into a slumber. He was awakened by the voice of his brothers, and, starting up, found De Lancey already gone. The brothers gave each other a long and close embrace, and hastened to their ranks.

The weather was yet unsettled. A thick mist enveloped the country around, and as the armies approached each other, neither friends nor foes could be distinguished. It was not till late in the morning that the clouds dispersed, and the sun broke forth in all its splendour. The dense and heavy vapours separated, and the clear blue sky was seen in distant perspective. At length even the fleecy clouds rolled away, and all was calm and tranquil in the heavens, forming a striking contrast to the scene below. The two armies were engaged in desperate contest. The once fertile valley and wine-covered hills lay blended by the smoke of the cannon, and confused shouts rent the air.

How many mothers, widows, and orphans, have wept for that day! How many beheld the "brave and beautiful" go forth to battle! Years have passed away, and memory still asks, "Where are they?" Amidst the tumult of war one scene of private distress was passing. Seated on a little hillock, and supporting his youngest brother's head upon his lap, sat Conrad de Castellon. His pale countenance and knit brow, discovered the agony of his feelings. Nor was it wholly mental. His leg had been shattered by a cannon ball, but it was only of Edward he thought. "Oh! for a drop of water," he exclaimed, "one draught might save him!" But who would stop in the full career of victory. "On, on, to Brussels!" rung on every side.

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"Is there no human aid?" said Conrad, and he rested his brother's head against a prostrate soldier, and strove to rise; but it was impossible, and he fell back with a groan and fainted. He was roused by the voice of De Lancey. "Up, comrade!" said he, " the horse are advancing; and you will be trampled under foot." Conrad pointed to his disabled leg, and the lifeless boy that lay before him. He was, indeed, lifeless. The spirit had passed away, and the stiffness of death had succeeded to the last pressure of his brother's hand.

"We can do nothing for him," said de Lancey; "he is gone. But I may save you," and, taking the soldier in his arms he bore him to a place of safety, and laid him on the turf.

"My brother! my poor Edward!" exclaimed Conrad, "must he be trampled under foot?" Once more de Lancey rushed back, seized the slight form of the Conscript, and placed it by the side of his brother, then, joining in the shout of "On, on to Brussels! Vive l'Empereur!" mingled in the battle.

It was late at night when the soldier cautiously sought the spot where he had left Conrad. He found him still watching by his brother.

"I have secured a place for you in a wagon," said De Lancey. "You must go to the Hospital of St. Catherine. You will be taken good care of."

"I cannot leave him," said Conrad, still clinging to his brother; "my poor Edward!"

"He is better off than we are," said the soldier, "for he does not live to see the disgrace of our army. All is lost! And well it might be," continued he, indignantly, "when they force boys like this from the arms of their mothers;" and he parted the curls of his hair, and the moon shone on his white forehead. "I pledge you my honour," continued he, "that I will see him buried where vultures cannot reach him. I will convey you to the wagon, and return to this spot again. To-morrow I will see you at the Hospital, where I hope to find you doing well."

Faithful to his promise, De Lancey joined him in the morning. The surgeon had already passed judgment on the wounded soldier. A violent fever had set in, and amputation of the limb, which would have been his only chance, would now hasten his end-he must die. "Let it be so," said Conrad, "my father will yet have a staff for his age if Philip lives; if not, remember your promise.'

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De Lancey staid by his friend till he breathed his last, and then took every means to ascertain whether Philip had survived the battle. His inquiries proved fruitless, but from several circumstances he felt sanguine in the belief that he was not among the slain, and naturally concluded he must have returned to his father. He regretted that he could not have restored the picture to him. "It will cost me a journey, now," said he, " but I will wait till Philip has been at home a few weeks." As time weakened his impressions his resolution grew fainter; for, it must be confessed, Fortunatus was not one of those who thought it good to go "to the house of mourning." He had, from his youth upward, been the subject of perpetual change, and had seen death in too many forms to be startled at it—but the tears of a father and sister he knew not how to encounter. A cloud had obscured his brow for a few days after this event, but it was soon dissipated, and he again became the happy, light-hearted Fortunatus. With the gay and thoughtless, time passes unmarked. It was nearly a year after the battle of Waterloo, when Lancey was travelling through the little village in which he had been introduced to the landlord of "The Plucked Hen." He stopped to pay him a visit, but the host was changed. The room, the table, the seats, all

remained the same, and so forcibly called up the recollection of his promise to the brothers, that his conscience smote him for the delay. He went immediately to visit Edward's grave. He had taken the precaution to identify it by two Lombardy poplars, which he had planted opposite, and twisted into an arch over the grave. They were twigs that he had cut from a neighbouring tree, but they had taken root, and were now covered with foliage. The grass had grown over the grave with a luxuriance that made the spot striking from the desolation that still remained around it.

By sunrise De Lancey had proceeded many miles on his way to Patière, where Jean de Castellon resided. It would have been a long and weary foot journey for one with less health and muscular strength; but it was his favourite way of travelling, and, he was fully of opinion, much less fatiguing than riding. And then, too, he could stop when he pleased and converse with all the good-humoured pleasant people he met, and made acquaintances where he thought they were worth making. Nothing, in fact, could be pleasanter than De Lancey's mode of travelling. He was too much accustomed to his knapsack to find it any burden, and he had provident virtue enough to secure himself means for every comfort a foot traveller could desire His little modicum had increased during the last year, and, though in the thoughtless benevolence of his heart, he sometimes gave a few francs injudiciously, yet he always said, in some way or other, they brought back their full interest.

When he entered Patière he inquired for the house of Castellon, and was directed to a whitewashed cottage surrounded by venerable trees, It was in the month of June, and every shrub and flower was in its first fragrance. An old man was sitting on a bench before the door. De Lancey approached him with a respectful air, and, taking off his hat, said, "Monsieur de Castellon ?"

"The same," he replied.

"I would ask," said the soldier, hesitatingly, " for Philip."

"And why for Philip?" said the old man, sternly, "why not for Conrad, my eldest born, and Edward, my youngest?" De Lancey made no reply. "Come," said he, "with me, and I will show you all I know of them."

He arose from his seat and walked slowly to a little wicker gate. He entered it and proceeded by a foot path to a hillock planted with trees. The soldier followed in silence. It was the family buryingground. Three simple gravestones, with the names of the brothers inscribed on each, were placed side by side. De Lancey's question was answered. Philip had never returned from the battle of Waterloo. "I knew," said he, with emotion. "the fate of Conrad and Edward; but I had hoped Philip had escaped."

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left."

Not one," said the father, clasping his hands, "not a remnant was

"I was a fellow soldier," said De Lancey. "I was quartered with them the evening before the battle."

"A soldier in Bonaparte's army?" said the old man, extending his hand. "Then you too are a Conscript?

"No," said De Lancey, "I was no Conscript. I enlisted voluntarily." The father withdrew his hand and turned coldly away.

"I have a commission from your son Conrad," said De Lancey, but it is for your daughter, and I must deliver it to her."

As they approached the house, Alice met them at the door. The sight of a soldier revived painful recollections, and a cloud came over her bright and blooming countenance.

De Lancey started at the strong resemblance she bore to her twin brother. There was the same tranquil expression of sweetness and innocence that had lingered on his face, even after his death.

He put his hand into his bosom and withdrew the miniature. "This," said he, "I promised your brother Conrad to deliver to you if I was the survivor." Alice took it, gazed upon it for a moment, and rushed into the house.

The father, with an air of authority, desired De Lancey to come in. The soldier proceeded to inform him of all the circumstances which related to the deaths of his two sons. "Of Philip," said he, "I know nothing. When I last saw him he had received no injury, but was in the heat of the battle, and fighting with a bravery worthy of Napoleon himself."

"No more of that," said the old man with bitterness. Conrad died in your own arms."

"You say

"He did," replied the soldier, "and he had every comfort, and the best of medical advice; and as for attendance, it would not be becoming for me to say much about that, but I never left him night nor day, as long as he lived. I could not have done more for him had it been the Emperor himself."

The last words were uttered in a low voice, and seemed to have escaped him without his consent. The father, however, did not remark them.

"You must stay with us a few days," said the old man, his heart melting at the thought of his sons.

"Most willingly," said De Lancey, "if you will give me some employment. I do not love idleness, and about a place like this, a pair of hands can't come amiss."

It was amusing to see with what facility the soldier adopted the habits and employments of the farmer. His services grew every day. more and important to De Castellon. A treaty of amity seemed to be formed between them, and Bonaparte was never alluded to on either side. A sentiment of delicacy had prevented De Lancey from delivering the letter of the brothers, for he knew the contents, and that they related wholly to himself.

The intercourse between Alice and the soldier was friendly and confiding. He learned from her how he could best assist her father in his labours, and how he could be most useful to herself; and they soon ceased to regard each other as strangers. His present mode of life

N. S. VOL. XXXIV.

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