drawers. "There," he continued, "is something as precious to me as
life itself. This box was a present from my mother. All day I have been
thinking that if she could rise from her grave, she would herself sell
the gold which her love for me lavished on this dressing-case; but were
I to do so, the act would seem to me a sacrilege." Eugenie pressed
his hand as she heard these last words. "No," he added, after a slight
pause, during which a liquid glance of tenderness passed between them,
"no, I will neither sell it nor risk its safety on my journey. Dear
Eugenie, you shall be its guardian. Never did friend commit anything
more sacred to another. Let me show it to you."

He went to the box, took it from its outer coverings, opened it, and
showed his delighted cousin a dressing-case where the rich workmanship
gave to the gold ornaments a value far above their weight.

"What you admire there is nothing," he said, pushing a secret spring
which opened a hidden drawer. "Here is something which to me is worth
the whole world." He drew out two portraits, masterpieces of Madame
Mirbel, richly set with pearls.

"Oh, how beautiful! Is it the lady to whom you wrote that--"

"No," he said, smiling; "this is my mother, and here is my father, your
aunt and uncle. Eugenie, I beg you on my knees, keep my treasure safely.
If I die and your little fortune is lost, this gold and these pearls
will repay you. To you alone could I leave these portraits; you are
worthy to keep them. But destroy them at last, so that they may pass
into no other hands." Eugenie was silent. "Ah, yes, say yes! You
consent?" he added with winning grace.

Hearing the very words she had just used to her cousin now addressed to
herself, she turned upon him a look of love, her first look of loving
womanhood,--a glance in which there is nearly as much of coquetry as of
inmost depth. He took her hand and kissed it.

"Angel of purity! between us two money is nothing, never can be
anything. Feeling, sentiment, must be all henceforth."

"You are like your mother,--was her voice as soft as yours?"

"Oh! much softer--"

"Yes, for you," she said, dropping her eyelids. "Come, Charles, go to
bed; I wish it; you must be tired. Good-night." She gently disengaged
her hand from those of her cousin, who followed her to her room,
lighting the way. When they were both upon the threshold,--

"Ah!" he said, "why am I ruined?"

"What matter?--my father is rich; I think so," sh