death, I at length opened the letter, and read as follows:—
“MY DEAR SIR,
“You will take it for granted that I am by this time among the angels in heaven; but I am still in my lovely Switzerland, and happier than any of the angels, for William lives in my arms.”
I know not how it happened, but my eyes were brimful when I took up the letter and broke the seal; the writing seemed to swim before me, so that I could not believe my senses when I beheld these lines, and at the end of the long epistle the name of Mimili plainly subscribed.
Trembling with joy, I wiped the tears from my eyes, and ran hastily over the letter;—it was actually so—Mimili and William were both alive and well.
William’s story was very brief. He knew not what had befallen him immediately after his wound, excepting that he had lain bleeding profusely, and quite insensible, under his horse. It was the middle of the night before he came to himself. His first question to a wounded comrade who lay next to him was, whether the enemy were beaten? and when this was answered by a cheering “Yes,” he inquired which way they had fled? “Towards Paris,” answered an unfortunate fellow-sufferer, whose legs
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