At this very moment the sound of advancing steps was heard, and Monsieur Carron entered with Eleonore in his arms. He placed her on the bed with Madame Eboli. The little creature nestled close, kissing and embracing her mother in a transport of delight; soon, however, the strange sounds, the shadowy figures that flitted past with noiseless footsteps, startled and awed the child. And then her mother looked so sadly on her, that she wept, scarce knowing why, but in a subdued tone, as though some grief swelled her little heart too deeply to be given utterance. “Poor child!” sighed the mother, “this is thy first real sorrow. . . . But I have a request yet to make. In my basket you will find a miniature of my sister, set in a pearl necklace; and a ring, my dear aunt’s gift. Should she ever come to this country, which she has spoken of doing, her first inquiries would be concerning me. The name of Eleonore Eboli and these jewels, would be sufficient evidence. . . . . There are two letters also, which I would have saved for Eleonore; they are her father’s. . . . . . . My sister and my aunt are the only persons of my family who knew that my destination was America.” Here she paused, as if exhausted. Little Eleonore had ceased crying, and was gazing earnestly at her mother. “Fear not for your child,” said Mr. Carron, “I will take care of her. You may trust in me.” Madame Eboli continued—“And now, my Eleonore, listen—you must be good, and stay with this gentleman, who will love you like papa.” “It is not papa? Where is papa?” and the little lips quivered. “Where I shall soon see him, dear Eleonore! I am going to leave you. Never forget your poor mother.” She then kissed the child several times. “There is some of papa’s hair in the locket around my neck.” Then addressing the gentlemen, she added: “Take it when I am gone—not till then.” Madame Eboli then sank into a stupor, in which she lay for half an hour; then opening her eyes, she only said: “Gustave says come! . . . . My child we will watch over thee. . . . . Protect her, she is so young—so innocent. I come, Gustave—I come!” And the angel of death passed by and received her last breath. Sixteen summers had found her a child, eighteen a woman, and at twenty she was laid where the aged sleep. “Be her sleep calm and deep, Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2] -----