ue. The Angel Gabriel bent over us, and looked at us with so
mild and sad an air, saying: 'Come, my children! come, my sisters! Your
mother waits for you. Poor children, arrived from so far!' added he in
his tender voice: 'You have passed over the earth, gentle and innocent as
two doves, to repose forever in the maternal nest.'"

"Yes, those were the words of the archangel," said the other orphan, with
a pensive air; "we have done no harm to any one, and we have loved those
who loved us--why should we fear to die?"

"Therefore, dear sister, we rather smiled than wept, when he took us by
the hand, and, spreading wide his beautiful white wings, carried us along
with him to the blue depths of the sky."

"To heaven, where our dear mother waited for us with open arms, her face
all bathed in tears."

"Oh, sweet sister! one has not dreams like ours for nothing. And then,"
added she, looking at Rose, with a sad smile that went to the heart, "our
death might perhaps end the sorrow, of which we have been the cause."

"Alas! it is not our fault. We love him so much. But we are so timid and
sorrowful before him, that he may perhaps think we love him not."

So saying, Rose took her handkerchief from her workbasket, to dry her
fears; a paper, folded in the form of a letter, fell out.

At this sight, the two shuddered, and pressed close to one mother, and
Rose said to Blanche, in a trembling voice: "Another of these
letters!--Oh, I am afraid! It will doubtless be like the last."

"We must pick it up quickly, that it may not be seen," said Blanche,
hastily stooping to seize the letter; "the people who take interest in us
might otherwise be exposed to great danger."

"But how could this letter come to us?"

"How did the others come to be placed right under our hand, and always in
the absence of our duenna?"

"It is true. Why seek to explain the mystery? We should never be able to
do so. Let us read the letter. It will perhaps be more favorable to us
than the last." And the two sisters read as follows:-"Continue to love
your father, dear children, for he is very miserable, and you are the
involuntary cause of his distress. You will never know the terrible
sacrifices that your presence imposes on him; but, alas! he is the victim
of his paternal duties. His sufferings are more cruel than ever; spare
him at least those marks of tenderness, which occasion him so much more
pain than pleasure. Each caress is a dagger-stroke, for he