“Sit down beside me, close to me, my husband, and hear me.” She spoke very quietly, very faintly. “But a moment since I raged against death. I am sorry for my fault. It is right that I should die, and I love death now that it has spared me to see thee once again. Ah, if my death had not been sure, thy father would never have bade thee come to me.” “Marguerite, speak not of death. I shall go mad. Say no more that you will die, say rather that you desire to live.” “Ah, what is my will? If I were a good girl, if I were honest, perhaps I should weep to leave the world, and leave _you_ behind, for then the future would be full of hope; my past life would then let me hope. Dying, thou wilt hold me in gentle remembrance; living, there would ever be a gloom upon our love. Believe me, all is for the best; what is done, is well done.” In an agony of grief he clung about her. “What then it is _I_ who must give _thee_ courage! Gently obey me. Open that little drawer, you will find there my portrait, when they told me I was pretty. Keep it, for it will help thee to remember me. But if some day, there cometh a kindly honest girl who will love and marry thee, as it should be, as I hope it may be, and if she should find this portrait, tell her it is the likeness of a friend who, if she may reach the obscurest corner of heaven, will pray for her happiness. If though she is jealous of the past (as we women are sometimes), if she demands from you this poor picture, place it in her hand, without fear or remorse--it will be but justice. And now I pardon thee the act, for a loving woman suffers so much when her love is not returned. Thou hast heard me. Dying--dying--yet happy. Tell them to talk about me sometimes--and they will--will they not? and--and--give me your hand. Oh, it is not hard to die when one dies happily. But what is this?” She stood up for a moment, smiling gloriously; then she continued, “Why I suffer no more. All pain has left me. Has a new life been breathed into me? I feel as I have never felt. Am I to live--am I to live?” Then she gently sat down again, leant back in her chair, and, sighing softly, became silent. “She is sleeping,” said Armand to himself, his hand still pressed in hers. “Marguerite, Marguerite.” Still her hand was clasped in his. “Marguerite--Marguerite!” Still she slept. He uttered a loud cry, and started to his feet. But his hand still remained clasped in hers. “Marguerite,” he again cried, and with a terrible energy, he tore his hand from her grasp. Her own fell placidly to her side. He flung himself down at her feet. “Dead--dead--dead.” DON PASQUALE. (DONIZETTI.) CHAPTER I. Don Pasquale was an old bachelor, and as wealthy as he was old. He was saving, credulous, and obstinate. But for all that Don Pasquale was the best-hearted of dons.