In the fortnight that followed, Zulma and Cary met nearly every day, sometimes more than once a day. It was impossible that it should be otherwise. There is no power on this earth that can restrain two youthful hearts thrilling and surging with the first impulses of love. When the imagination is all aglow with the purple pictures of destiny; when the soul throbs with the unspeakably delicious sentiments of an affection that is requited; when the nerves are in tension and quiver like the strings of a harp; when the hot blood runs wild through the veins, suffusing lip and cheek and brow; and the eyes look out upon the roseate world through a mist of tears that are pleasureable pain and painful pleasure inexplicably blended, then there is no force of cold conventionality to check the outcomes of the spirit, no bolts or bars or chains to fetter the bounding limbs that go forth rejoicing through the enchanted landscape which the good God has opened to all of us, at least once in life, as an exquisite foretaste of Paradise.

What mattered it to Zulma and Cary that the autumn skies were low, that the winds moaned dismally through the leafless woods, that the snow clouded the face of the sun and charged the atmosphere with inclement moisture? They sat together before the blazing fire-place, and conversed for hours, quite forgetful of the dreary winter that was setting in. Or they stood together at the window, and as they conversed, unconsciously contrasted the light and warmth that reigned in their hearts with the cold and gloom of the waning year outside. Or they lingered on the portico, loath to part for the day, and never minded the bleakness of the weather, in the hope of meeting again. What mattered it that Singleton had military duties to perform which retained him in camp for many hours of each day, or sent him at the head of scouting parties, over the country in search of provisions or to watch the movements of the enemy? He managed his time so well that while never, in a single instance, neglecting his business as a soldier, he found the means of satisfying the claims of the lover. These very difficulties only gave zest to the excitement in which he lived, and he was happy to know, although she never said it, that they added to Zulma's sense of appreciation.

Another circumstance deserving of mention is that the young rifleman's visits to the Sarpy mansion were so conducted as to be a secret to his companions-in-arms. There was a purpose in this, although neither Cary, nor Zulma, nor M. Sarpy ever exchanged a word about it together. The stay of the Continental army at Pointe-aux-Trembles was only temporary. Its stay around Quebec, after it returned there, would be at least rather precarious. It was, therefore, hardly desirable that one of its officers should be known to have contracted other than military engagements which might bind his good name among the vicissitudes of a most hazardous war. Thus there was a dash of calculation in the romance of Cary's love, a reserve of good sense amid all the impetuousness which buoyed his heart. It is ever thus with men. They are rarely whole lovers. Their ingrained selfishness always pierces, however slightly, to mar the completeness of their sacrifice.

It was not so with the Canadian girl. She had that glorious independence—the gift of superior women—which cares not for the prying eyes of all the world. She did not mind who knew of the American soldier's visit to her father's home. She would not have concealed a single one of his interviews with herself. She liked him; she was delighted to think that he liked her; they were happy in each other's company—what more did she need for present happiness, and what harm if others knew that she was happy?

Neither had her father any of the misgivings so common and so hateful in meticulous old men. He was a loyal, frank character. He had unbounded confidence in his daughter, and his absorbing love for her made him rejoice in the present little episode as a bright spot amid the gathering gloom of war. He had taken a fancy to Cary from the first. He relished his conversation. He appreciated his attentions to Zulma with the proud consciousness that she fully deserved them. Apart altogether from political consideration, into which he never entered, and which the young officer had the delicacy never to approach, he was pleased to judge for himself of the men who came to invade his country in the sacred name of liberty, and of extending the hospitality of his house to a representative among them, as proof that he too was a friend of humanity and chose to regard the impending war only from the standpoint of right.

Fortunately, however, for all concerned, it so happened that the visits of Cary were known to very few of those who habitually went to the Sarpy mansion. The daily beggar hobbled up as usual, with his basket under his arm, or meal bag slung across his shoulder, to gather the abundant crumbs of the table, but he never penetrated beyond the kitchen. The poor widow of the neighborhood appeared regularly for the broken victuals that were almost the sole sustenance of her brood of little orphans, but she was a model woman of her class, not given to gossip and so devoted to her benefactors that she would repeat nothing likely to satisfy the vulgar curiosity of outsiders. The farmers and villagers, of Pointe-aux-Trembles were kept so busy providing food and lodgings for the army, or were so deterred from moving about by the sight of the patrols along the roads, that almost none of them called at the mansion during the whole period of occupation.

And so passed the fortnight away. It was all too short considered by the number of days. The mornings rose and the twilights came with a calm remorseless rapidity that had no regard for the calculations of the heart, but when the recapitulation was made, it was found that a mighty distance had been travelled, and that the vague impressions of each succeeding interview had verged at last into a blazing focus, whence the illumination of two youthful lives burst upon the view.