Eudora Roland, born October 7, 1781, was twelve years old at the time of her mother’s death. Separated the night of the arrest, the two never saw each other again. Happily, there were warm and faithful friends ready to take care of her as soon as her serious situation was known. Bosc, who throughout Madame Roland’s imprisonment showed himself of the most fearless and tender devotion, went to the apartment in the Rue de la Harpe soon after the arrest, and took the little girl to the home of a member of the Convention, Creuzé-la-Touche. Here she remained until a few days before her mother’s death. Then it became evident that, in sheltering Eudora, Madame Creuzé-la-Touche was compromising the safety of her family, and she was compelled to place her charge in a _pension_. She was not received there, even, until her name had been changed. All this was a great grief to Madame Roland in her last days. She understood only too well now that her child was in danger of suffering her own fate. She wrote an anxious letter to “the person charged with the care of my daughter,” and to Eudora herself she wrote a courageous adieu: “I do not know, my little girl,” she wrote, “that I shall ever see or write to you again. REMEMBER YOUR MOTHER, that is the best thing I can say to you. You have seen me happy in doing my duty and in serving those who were suffering. There is no better life. “You have seen me tranquil in misfortune and captivity. I could be so because I had no remorse, and only pleasant memories of the good I had done. Nothing else can sustain one in the sorrows of life. Perhaps you will never experience trials like mine, but you must prepare for others. A busy, active life is the best safeguard against danger, and necessity, as well as wisdom, will compel you to work seriously. “Be worthy of your parents. They leave you a noble example. If you follow them, you will not live in vain. “Farewell, dear child. I nursed you at my breast. I would inspire you with my aspirations. The day will come when you will understand the effort I am making to be strong as I think of your sweet face. “Would that I could fold you to my breast! “Adieu, my Eudora.” It was Madame Roland’s last letter to her child. Bosc, who had been allowed to visit her twice a week throughout the fall, was now forbidden to see her. Letters had to be smuggled in and out of the prison, and she soon ceased to have any trustworthy news of her loved ones. Six days after the above letter, she wrote to Bosc: “My poor little one! Where is she? Tell me, I beg of you. Give me some details that I may picture her to myself in her new surroundings.” It was too late. In less than a week after this letter she was in the Conciergerie.