etter, which he had received by Spoil-sport's
unexpected medium, Rose and Blanche were alone together, in the sitting
room they usually occupied, which had been entered for a moment by Loony
during their absence. The poor children seemed destined to a succession
of sorrows. At the moment their mourning for their mother drew near its
close, the tragical death of their grandfather had again dressed them in
funereal weeds. They were seated together upon a couch, in front of their
work-table. Grief often produces the effect of years. Hence, in a few
months, Rose and Blanche had become quite young women. To the infantine
grace of their charming faces, formerly so plump and rosy, but now pale
and thin, had succeeded an expression of grave and touching sadness.
Their large, mild eyes of limpid azure, which always had a dreamy
character, were now never bathed in those joyous tears, with which a
burst of frank and hearty laughter used of old to adorn their silky
lashes, when the comic coolness of Dagobert, or some funny trick of
Spoil-sport, cheered them in the course of their long and weary
pilgrimage.

In a word, those delightful faces, which the flowery pencil of Greuze
could alone have painted in all their velvet freshness, were now worthy
of inspiring the melancholy ideal of the immortal Ary Scheffer, who gave
us Mignon aspiring to Paradise, and Margaret dreaming of Faust. Rose,
leaning back on the couch, held her head somewhat bowed upon her bosom,
over which was crossed a handkerchief of black crape. The light streaming
from a window opposite, shone softly on her pure, white forehead, crowned
by two thick bands of chestnut hair. Her look was fixed, and the open
arch of her eyebrows, now somewhat contracted, announced a mind occupied
with painful thoughts. Her thin, white little hands had fallen upon her
knees, but still held the embroidery, on which she had been engaged. The
profile of Blanche was visible, leaning a little towards her sister, with
an expression of tender and anxious solicitude, whilst her needle
remained in the canvas, as if she had just ceased to work.

"Sister," said Blanche, in a low voice, after some moments of silence,
during which the tears seemed to mount to her eyes, "tell me what you are
thinking of. You look so sad."

"I think of the Golden City of our dreams," replied Rose, almost in a
whisper, after another short silence.

Blanche understood the bitterness of these words. Without speaking,