All over Franche-Comte the snow had fallen for three days unceasingly, yet through it for those three days a man--a soldier--had ridden, heading his course north, for Paris. Wrapped in his cloak, and prevented from falling by his bridle arm, he bore a little child--a girl some three years old--on whom, as the cloak would sometimes become disarranged, he would look down fondly, his firm, grave features relaxing into a sad smile as the blue eyes of the little creature gazed upward and smiled into his own face. Then he would whisper a word of love to it, press it closer to his great breast, and again ride on.…
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