come back again, I can prove that it was no
fault of yours."

"My good man, you don't know the severity
of our rules."

"They will not punish you for a crime you
have not committed. Meanwhile, you cannot live
on air. You probably were brought up in the
country, and are accustomed to do country
work?"

"Certainly. I can plough, for instance."

"The very thing for me. I can offer you
good board and lodging, with a small weekly
payment into the bargain. It will be the best
thing you can do, under the circumstances." The
soldier heaved a heavy sigh, and slowly gazed all
round the horizon, to see whether any of the
ships were still visible. Beholding nothing, he
said, at last: "I thankfully accept your offer."

"Good!" said the farmer, Peter Baxen.
"Come and breakfast at once. We will go on
with the ploughing afterwards."

At Baxen's farm the soldier-ploughman had
plenty of opportunities of proving his capacity.
He found such favour in the farmer's eyes—and
in other people's too—that Baxen determined
to try and keep him for good and all.

"My worthy fellow," he said one day, "I
look upon you almost as a son."

"If my poor old father," Firmin answered,
"were not anxiously awaiting my return to
France, I would willingly remain in Rugen."

"You can bring him back with you, the next
time you go to France. But what I want to
say to you now, concerns my daughter."

Firmin coloured up to the eyes.

"Unless I am much mistaken, you and she
are very good friends."

Firmin uttered a few unintelligible words.

"The neighbours even say you are in love
with her."

"I assure you I never uttered a word which
could lead her to suppose that——"

"I know it; and for that very reason I took
upon myself to tell her that, if you had no
objection, she might have you for her husband."

"And she said——?"

"Not a word; bat she threw her arms round
my neck and kissed me for a quarter of an
hour." A fortnight afterwards, Firmin Bonard
was married to the fair-haired Clarissa, Peter
Baxen's only daughter.

Four years then elapsed, pretty equally divided
between love and labour. His thoughts occasionally
reverted to France, but he had almost
forgotten his compulsory desertion. The past
soon fades from our memory when the present
is satisfactory and the future promising.

One morning, the look-out man in the town
of Rugen signalled a fleet of ships in the offing.
They were men-of-war, carrying the French flag.
"The French are coming!" people shouted to
each other. "They are going to land!"

Firmin Bonard heard it. "The French are
coming!" rang in his ears like the boom of
an alarm-gun. It told him that he was a lost
man. Nevertheless, a thought struck him which
relieved his heart by a glimmer of hope.

He ran home, put on his uniform, seized his
arms, and mounted guard on the very spot
where, five years before, he had been
unintentionally abandoned. Meanwhile, boats full of
soldiers rowed towards the hillock. In the forepart
of one of the boats was a black and white
poodle. As it approached the beach, the creature
barked with joy. In spite of his anxiety,
Firmin's eyes filled with tears as he recognised
his old friend Capucin. The dog, unable to
master his impatience, jumped into the sea and
swam to shore.

As soon as the boats had come within ear-
shot, Firmin "made ready," and shouted at the
top of his voice, "Qui vive?"

"Qui vive, yourself?" said the occupants of
the first boat, which was filled with officers,
composing Marshal Davoust's staff. "Who
are you? And what are you doing here?"

"I am a sentinel, keeping guard."

"A pretty sentinel! How long have you
been on guard?"

"Five years."

"It is time to come down, then," shouted
the officers, laughing.

When Firmin descended from his hill,
Capucin ran to meet him half way, barking with
joy, and jumping into his arms.

"Poor Capucin! Have it all your own way
this time. Do whatever you like. Dirty me,
tear my clothes; I shan't send you away. I
ought to have made a better return for your
attempt to serve me."

Followed by the faithful dog, Firmin joined
his former comrades. He gave a plain account
of what had happened. By a lucky chance,
the corporal, who had forgotten him, and who
had since been promoted, belonged to Marshal
Davoust's staff. He received his old comrade with
open arms. Firmin, in return, invited his countrymen
to the farm, where he entertained them
with liberal hospitality. The adventure reached
Marshal Davoust's ears. He laughed at Firmin's
stratagem, and presented him with a discharge
drawn up in due form. "I should not like the
brave fellow," he said, "to appear before a court-
martial, after having kept guard so long."

Firmin continued a farmer. He had a large
family, who at present fill the highest and most
important offices in the island. They are
commonly known as the Sentinel's Family. When
the French finally left Rugen, Capucin remained.
Like his master, he forgot his military tastes,
and devoted himself exclusively to farming.

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD

PRISON DISCIPLINE

IN 1729, the disgraceful state of the London
prisons had reached so horrible a pitch that it
became necessary to bring up two of the deputy
governors for trial on charges of murder, these
trials having been preceded by a parliamentary
commission.

Acton, the head warder of the Marshalsea,
and one of his subordinates, named Rogers,
were especially exasperated with one Bliss, a
refractory carpenter, because he, with six or