Rosalie had left the door of her room slightly a-jar when she went out, as was her custom, that the woman who occupied the apartment below—a decent and quiet person—might hear her father’s bell, should he touch the small one beside him. She had left him in a tranquil sleep, and apparently recovered from the preceding excitement, and expecting to be absent a very short time, she felt no more anxiety than usual respecting him, nor hesitated to leave him alone as she was in the habit of doing when obliged to go out. Grayson softly entered the room, and with the stealthy step of a cat glided swiftly across it, casting a furtive glance at the sleeper as she passed the bed to assure herself that all was safe—then flinging aside the curtain which concealed the rose-tree, she drew forth her sharp, bright scissors, and commenced the work of destruction. Wreaths and clusters of those bursting buds and full-blown roses she relentlessly severed from the parent tree, depositing them in a capacious handkerchief which she had spread upon the floor to receive them, till the beautiful plant—but just now crowned with living bloom and beauty—stood before her shorn and disfigured by her cruel theft. In haste to be gone, she cast the last roses on her heap of spoils, and was carefully drawing the corners of the handkerchief together that she might not crush them, when a low sort of hissing sound from the bed startled her. She looked up, and at the sight which met her view, even her bold heart quailed with momentary fear and awe. Sitting upright, she beheld Mr. La Motte, his tall, erect form emaciated almost to a skeleton, one hand feebly grasping the pillow for support, the other, thin and shadowy, stretched with a menacing gesture toward her. His ghostly face, rendered still more so by the black hair, streaked with gray, which had grown long during his illness, and which hung round it, giving it the livid hue of death; but intense life seemed centered in his eyes, which—dark as night, deep sunk and large—glared upon her with a look of terrible rage and ferocity, while his skinny lips, drawn apart in a vain effort to give utterance to his wrath, disclosed two rows of teeth glittering with deathly whiteness, that lent a supernatural aspect to the countenance. Quickly gathering up the stolen roses, Grayson darted toward the door; but when the sick man saw her actually escaping with the treasured flowers, his agony burst forth in burning words: “Fiend! fiend!” he shouted; “you have robbed the dead! they are here—they call you to give back—give back—the—” and his speech failing by degrees, and his unnatural strength yielding before the violence of the effort he made, he fell over insensible on the edge of the bed, upsetting the little table, and causing the hand-bell—placed on it for his use—to roll on the floor, ringing out its loudest peal as it fell.