een a solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed

distinctions.”

His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood

from running cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.

“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the

moonlight, coming to me and taking me out to show me that the

home of her married life was full of her loving remembrance of her

lost father. My picture was in her room, and I was in her prayers.

Her life was active, cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded

it all.”

“I was that child, my father. I was not half so good, but in my

love that was I.”

“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of

Beauvais, “and they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity

me. When they passed a prison of the State, they kept far from its

frowning walls, and looked up at its bars, and spoke in whispers.

She could never deliver me; I imagined that she always brought

me back after showing me such things. But then, blessed with the

relief of tears, I fell upon my knees and blessed her.”

“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you

bless me as fervently tomorrow?”

“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have

tonight for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking

God for my great happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest,