“Ah, my child! I did this thing myself. I left my father to follow my husband; and yet my father was all alone; I was all the child he had. Is that why God has so punished me? What I ask of you is to marry as your father wishes, to cherish him in your heart, not to sacrifice him to your own happiness, but to make him the centre of your home. Before losing my sight, I wrote him all my wishes, and I know he will execute them. I enjoined him to keep his property intact and in his own hands; not that I distrust you, my Modeste, for a moment, but who can be sure of a son-in-law? Ah! my daughter, look at me; was I reasonable? One glance of the eye decided my life. Beauty, so often deceitful, in my case spoke true; but even were it the same with you, my poor child, swear to me that you will let your father inquire into the character, the habits, the heart, and the previous life of the man you distinguish with your love--if, by chance, there is such a man.” “I will never marry without the consent of my father,” answered Modeste. “You see, my darling,” said Madame Mignon after a long pause, “that if I am dying by inches through Bettina’s wrong-doing, your father would not survive yours, no, not for a moment. I know him; he would put a pistol to his head,--there could be no life, no happiness on earth for him.” Modeste walked a few steps away from her mother, but immediately came back. “Why did you leave me?” demanded Madame Mignon. “You made me cry, mamma,” answered Modeste. “Ah, my little darling, kiss me. You love no one here? you have no lover, have you?” she asked, holding Modeste on her lap, heart to heart. “No, my dear mamma,” said the little Jesuit. “Can you swear it?” “Oh, yes!” cried Modeste. Madame Mignon said no more; but she still doubted. “At least, if you do choose your husband, you will tell your father?” she resumed. “I promised that to my sister, and to you, mother. What evil do you think I could commit while I wear that ring upon my finger and read those words: ‘Think of Bettina?’ Poor sister!” At these words a truce of silence came between the pair; the mother’s blighted eyes rained tears which Modeste could not check, though she threw herself upon her knees, and cried: “Forgive me! oh, forgive me, mother!” At this instant the excellent Dumay was coming up the hill of Ingouville on the double-quick,--a fact quite abnormal in the present life of the cashier. Three letters had brought ruin to the Mignons; a single letter now restored their fortunes. Dumay had received from a sea-captain just arrived from the China Seas the following letter containing the first news of his patron and friend, Charles Mignon:-- To Monsieur Jean Dumay: My Dear Dumay,--I shall quickly follow, barring the chances of the voyage, the vessel which carries this letter. In fact, I should have taken it, but I did not wish to leave my own ship to which I am accustomed.