l take you home. Prosperity is here. Stay with us,
angel!"

But the faithful heart, so full of love, was growing cold. Ginevra
turned her eyes instinctively to him she loved, though she was conscious
of nought else. Confused images passed before her mind, now losing
memory of earth. She knew that Luigi was there, for she clasped his
icy hand tightly, and more tightly still, as though she strove to save
herself from some precipice down which she feared to fall.

"Dear," she said, at last, "you are cold; I will warm you."

She tried to put his hand upon her heart, but died.

Two doctors, a priest, and several neighbors came into the room,
bringing all that was necessary to save the poor couple and calm their
despair. These strangers made some noise in entering; but after they had
entered, an awful silence filled the room.

While that scene was taking place, Bartolomeo and his wife were sitting
in their antique chairs, each at a corner of the vast fireplace, where a
glowing fire scarcely warmed the great spaces of their salon. The clock
told midnight.

For some time past the old couple had lost the ability to sleep. At the
present moment they sat there silent, like two persons in their dotage,
gazing about them at things they did not see. Their deserted salon, so
filled with memories to them, was feebly lighted by a single lamp which
seemed expiring. Without the sparkling of the flame upon the hearth,
they might soon have been in total darkness.

A friend had just left them; and the chair on which he had been sitting,
remained where he left it, between the two Corsicans. Piombo was casting
glances at that chair,--glances full of thoughts, crowding one upon
another like remorse,--for the empty chair was Ginevra's. Elisa Piombo
watched the expressions that now began to cross her husband's pallid
face. Though long accustomed to divine his feelings from the changeful
agitations of his face, they seemed to-night so threatening, and anon
so melancholy that she felt she could no longer read a soul that was now
incomprehensible, even to her.

Would Bartolomeo yield, at last, to the memories awakened by that chair?
Had he been shocked to see a stranger in that chair, used for the
first time since his daughter left him? Had the hour of his mercy
struck,--that hour she had vainly prayed and waited for till now?

These reflections shook the mother's heart successively. For an instant
her husband's countenance became so terri