ous lady is called--"

"The Marquise d'Harville."

"Never will that name be forgotten by me! Henceforward it will be to me
as that of my patron saint,--the object of my grateful worship! Oh, when
I remember that, thanks to her, my wife, children,--all, are
saved!--saved--no, no, not all,--my little Adele has gone from us! We
shall see her sweet face no more; but still, I know we must have parted
with her sooner or later; the dear child's doom was long since decreed!"

Here the poor lapidary wiped away the tears which filled his eyes at the
recollection of his lost darling.

"As for the last duties that have now to be performed for your poor
child," said Rodolph, "if you will be guided by me, this is how we will
arrange it. I have not yet begun to occupy my chamber; it is large,
airy, and convenient. There is already one bed in it; and I will give
orders to add all that may be requisite for the accommodation of
yourself and family, until Madame d'Harville is enabled to find an
eligible abode for you. The remains of your little daughter can then be
left in your attic, where, until the period of interment, they can be
properly watched and guarded by a priest with all requisite attention. I
will request M. Pipelet to take upon himself every necessary arrangement
for the mournful office of laying the poor babe in its peaceful grave."

"Nay, sir,--but, indeed, I cannot allow you to be turned out of your
apartment! Now that we are so happily freed from our misery, and that I
have no longer the dread of being dragged to prison, our poor garret
will seem to me like a palace,--more especially if my Louise remains to
watch over the family as she used to do."

"Your daughter shall never again quit you. You said, awhile ago, that
the first desire of your heart was to have Louise always with you. Well
then, as a reward for your past sufferings, I promise you she shall
never leave you more."

"Oh, sir, this is too much; it cannot be reality! It seems as though I
were dreaming some happy dream. I fear I have never been as religious as
I ought. I have, in fact, known no other religion than that of honour.
But such a reverse, such a change from wretchedness to joy, would make
even an atheist believe, if not in priests, at least in a gracious,
interposing, and preserving Providence."

"And if," said Rodolph, sadly, "a father's sorrow for the loss of his
child can be assuaged by promises of rewards or recompense, I would say
that