and the old face crowned only by the thin
white hair of nature, that dignity was still there surmounting the
wandering talk and the moaning from her parched lips, which every now
and then smiled and pouted in a kiss, as if remembering the maxims of
the parrot. So the night passed, with all that could be done for her,
whose most collected phrase, frequently uttered in the doctor's face,
was: "Mind, Augustine, I won't have a doctor--I can manage for myself
quite well." Once for a few minutes her spirit seemed to recover its
coherence, and she was heard to whisper: "God has given me this so that
I may know what the poor soldiers suffer. Oh! they've forgotten to cover
Polly's cage." But high fever soon passes from the very old; and early
morning brought a deathlike exhaustion, with utter silence, save for the
licking of the flames at the olive-wood logs, and the sound as they
slipped or settled down, calcined. The firelight crept fantastically
about the walls covered with tapestry of French-grey silk, crept round
the screen-head of the couch, and betrayed the ivory pallor of that
mask-like face, which covered now such tenuous threads of life.
Augustine, who had come on guard when the fever died away, sat in the
armchair before those flames, trying hard to watch, but dropping off
into the healthy sleep of youth. And out in the clear, hard shivering
Southern cold, the old clocks chimed the hours into the winter dark,
where, remote from man's restless spirit, the old town brooded above
plain and river under the morning stars. And the girl dreamed--dreamed
of a sweetheart under the acacias by her home, of his pinning their
white flowers into her hair, till she woke with a little laugh. Light
was already coming through the shutter chinks, the fire was but red
embers and white ash. She gathered it stealthily together, put on fresh
logs, and stole over to the couch. Oh! how white! how still! Was her
mistress dead? The icy clutch of that thought jerked her hands up to her
full breast, and a cry mounted in her throat. The eyes opened. The white
lips parted, as if to smile; a voice whispered: "Now, don't be silly!"
The girl's cry changed into a little sob, and bending down she put her
lips to the ringed hand that lay outside the quilt. The hand moved
faintly as if responding, the voice whispered: "The emerald ring is for
you, Augustine. Is it morning? Uncover Polly's cage, and open his door."

_Madame_ spoke no more that morning. A te