his party. He had lived hitherto, a reckless life, without a thought of futurity; but the loss of his wife and daughter, had brought him to reflection -then to penitence. The cheerful piety of his adopted daughter, Teresa, her faith, her trust in God, led Dubois to seek support from Heaven, and he became a better and a happier man. His iron constitution did not yield to cold, fatigue, or famine; bravely he bore up against the combat, he sustained with the bitter north wind, and blinding snow. Faithful to his promise, he generously protected the young Spaniards, fed them from his own share when the common stock of his coterie grew low; placed them by the warmest nook of the bivouac fire, and spoke with hope of their safe arrival in Lithuania, where they might find friends and shelter from the weather. Often Teresa's eyes filled with tears of gratitude, and she would say,-"How good, how kind, and we are strangers too, born in another country, and speaking a different language.

Then Dubois would reply, "Did not my lost Nina die in your arms? did not you close her eyes? Never, never shall I forget the sad hour in which I saw her last; her head reclining on your knees, and your tears rolling down her dear face. I vowed then to watch over you and your's, and, Teresa, I have only kept my word; I have, however, ceased to lament my wife and only child, these hardships and horrors would have driven them mad."

Teresa sighed deeply; dearly as she loved her parents she did not lament them now. She felt happy that they were not struggling with the miseries of this dreadful march. No, their souls were with God, "they had been taken away from the evil to come," and she dared not repine at the merciful fiat.

The serjeant often wondered if his relative, Major Beauville, were living for since the day when he turned back to seek for the Spanish children, he had never seen him. He feared he had either been killed in some skirmish with

the Russians, or had fallen a victim to the inclemency of the weather. The frost daily increased in its intensity, till it fell twenty-seven degrees below freezing point. Then the nightly bivouac was marked by its ring of dead; and three of the veterans who composed Dubois' coterie, were frozen near the fire! The little Blanca sunk beneath the withering effects of the cold. It was strange she had lasted so long. Teresa wept, and yet she felt that the babe was happier than the miserable survivors of what was once called the grand army of Napoleon.

Then these scattered and warring communities, who often preyed upon each other, were forced to combine to defend themselves from the Russians, who appeared suddenly among them, and with whom they now fought every day. Then the French had to fight before they could retreat and on such occasions the poor children concealed themselves under the bushes, or in the hollows of trees, and awaited the return of their only earthly friend with terror that almost deprived

them of their senses. Brave as the French troops always were, their courage now became desperation, and sometimes, though not often, the Russians were worsted. But it was the Cossacks that inspired these scattered thousands with the greatest alarm, for mounted on their fleet horses they speared the French soldiers with their long lances, uttering their wild and tremendous hurrahs. Once, Napoleon himself nearly fell into their hands, and the night attack upon his encampment was long known by the name of "the Emperor's hurrah."

Teresa and Carlos had often seen these savage horsemen rush out with their long hair and beards streaming in the wind, and their terrible lances in their hands; and their hearts died within them at the sound of their war-cry. Hitherto, Providence had left them a protector in serjeant Dubois, but this kind friend was suddenly taken away from them by one of the disasters so common in war. The cry, "to arms, to arms," united for defence the scattered

thousands who still preserved the line of march. Dubois hastily obeyed the summons. It was a dreadful combat, but at last the firing ceased, and the orphans looked out from their hiding place; the Russians were gone and the brave serjeant was coming towards them. His step was faltering, his face was pale; Teresa and Carlos ran to support him, but he dropped before they could reach him, dyeing with his life-blood the cold white snow. Teresa knelt beside him, and the gallant soldier wrung her hand and died. For some time the children hung over their poor friend in the bitterest grief. What was to become of them now he was gone?—they dared not even think.-To endeavour to regain their coterie was impossible; but Teresa, whose intelligence surpassed her years, waited by the way-side till some fugitives should come by, in whose company she and her brother could pursue the homeward march. Towards noon, several hundred fugitive Frenchmen appeared in sight, and with weeping eyes and sad hearts the unfor