“Say all that is right for me,” Clémence continued. “But I don’t think you will have any trouble there. We have not only imperial courtesy to deal with, but kind hearts and true.” “Hearts that often bleed beneath their purple trappings,” Ivan answered. “The Empress Elizabeth does not appear at this ball: she is mourning to-night for the death of a little girl whom she had adopted, and to whom she was tenderly attached. ‘Every one dies in whom I take an interest,’ she says. Perhaps her own frail health makes her look the more sorrowfully upon all things. Pray for her, Clémence.” “Indeed I will. How the happy ought to pray for those on whom life’s shadows seem to fall! _We_ have all sunshine, Ivan.” But even then a shadow was falling over their happy home. The little Rosebud, so lovingly watched and tended, was fading quickly. When Ivan returned that night from the Winter Palace, with its splendour, its lights, its music, his own dwelling was hushed and still. The Master had come for their treasure. Unmurmuringly, though with tearful eyes and aching hearts, they gave it into his keeping. They might have said, had they known the words,-- “God took thee in his arms, a lamb untasked, untried; He fought the fight for thee, he won the victory, And thou art sanctified.” CHAPTER XXXIX. MORNING SUNSHINE. “The lonely glory of a throne May yet this lowly joy deserve; Kings may make that a stepping-stone, And change ‘I reign’ into ‘I serve.’” Two or three weeks later Clémence sat alone one afternoon. A bright wood fire burned on the hearth, and on a little table near her lay a pile of needlework--garments for the poor. But just then she was occupied with a letter from her mother, written in happy unconsciousness of the sorrow which had fallen upon her dear ones; and she could not help a few tears which dropped quietly upon the page, full of questions and remarks about their little Rosebud. While she was reading Ivan came in, with more brightness in his face and animation in his step than had been there since Christmas eve. But he saw the tears, and stooping down kissed her tenderly. “What is it, m’amie?” he whispered. “These letters, dear,” she answered, looking up with the smile of welcome _his_ entrance never failed to win from her. “My mother’s is about our Rosebud.” After a pause and a little sigh she added, “The only important news she tells us is that our friend M. de Sartines is dead.” “Indeed! I am very sorry.” “So am I, especially for Stéphanie. She has written to me herself, poor child--a long letter, but I have not read it yet.” “Does our mother give any particulars?” asked Ivan. “Only that his illness was a short one--inflammation on the lungs. She says Stéphanie has behaved admirably, tending her father bravely and carefully, and watching beside him to the very end. She is almost heart-broken.”