"You fear to remind me of myself, Rose, in telling of Gertrude. Indeed, there is no analogy to be traced between the cases," she added, with a bitter smile, "save in the nature of the disease; and that we must both die. One might envy _her_ fate." "I don't like the book," persisted Rose. "I do," said Adeline. "One tale in it I could never be tired of. I forget its title, but it begins, 'The angels strung their harps in Heaven, and the----'" "I know," interrupted Rose, rapidly turning over the pages. "Here it is. 'The Soul in Purgatory; or, Love stronger than Death.' It is a tale of woman's enduring love." "_And its reward_," sighed Adeline. "Read it. It is very short." Rose began her reading. It was quite impossible to tell whether Adeline listened or not: she sat silent, in her chair, her hand over her face; and, when it was over, she remained in the same position, making no comment, till the nurse came in to give the medicine. "I'm not wanted in there just now," said she, with that freedom of manner which is so characteristic of the dependents in a French family, but which is never offensive, or even borders on disrespect; "so I'll sit here a bit." "You can wheel the sofa nearer to the fire, nurse," said Adeline. It was done, and Adeline lay down upon it. Rose began another tale, and read till dusk. "Shall I stir the fire into a blaze, Adeline, and finish it now; or wait until candle-light?" There came no answer. Mary Carr stole forward and bent over Adeline. She had fallen asleep. Stay: not sleep; but into one of those restless, dreamy stupors akin to it. The thought had more than once crossed them--did that Odesque doctor, who chiefly saw to the medicine, put laudanum in it, and were these feverish wanderings the result? The uncertain light of the wood fire played fitfully upon Adeline's face, revealing its extreme beauty of feature and its deathly paleness. Rose closed her book; and Mary left Adeline's sofa, and stood looking through the window on the dreary night. The nurse, who had dropped into a doze herself, soothed by the monotonous and incomprehensible tones of the foreign tongue, rose and went downstairs for some wood. Mary Carr had laid her finger with a warning gesture on Rose Darling's arm, for sounds were heard from Adeline. Turning from the darkened window where they had been holding a whispered colloquy, they held their breath to listen. Very distinct were the words in the silence of the room: "Don't say it! don't say it!" murmured Adeline. "I tell you there is no hope. He has been gone too long: one--two--three--four--do you think I have not counted the weeks?--Why does he not come?--Why does he not write?--What's this? My letters? thrust back upon me with scorn and insult!--What is he whispering to Sarah Beauclerc? Oh, mercy! mercy!"