n, had not had sufficient strength
to accomplish this barbarous custom.

At eight o'clock in the evening Fleur-de-Marie knelt and prayed
until midnight, but, overpowered by her emotion and the intense
cold, she fainted; two nuns instantly raised her, and bore her
to her cell. David was instantly summoned, and Murphy came to
me. I hastened to the convent, where the abbess assured me that
my daughter's swoon, from which she had recovered, had been
caused only by her weakness, but that David feared that my
presence might seriously affect her. I feared they were
preparing me for something more dreadful, but the superior said:

"I assure you, monseigneur, the princess is in no danger; the
restorative the doctor has given her has greatly recruited her
strength."

David soon returned. She was better, but had insisted upon
continuing her vigil, consenting only to kneel upon a cushion.

"She is in the church, then?" cried I.

"Yes, monseigneur, but she will quit it in a quarter of an
hour."

I entered the church, and, by the faint light of a lamp, I saw
her kneeling and praying fervently. Three o'clock struck; two
sisters, seated in the stalls, advanced and spoke to her; she
crossed herself, rose, and traversed the choir with a firm step,
and yet as she passed the lamp she seemed to me deathly pale. I
remain at the abbey until the ceremony be over. I think now it
is useless to send this letter incomplete. I will forward it
to-morrow, with all the details of this sad day. Adieu,
dearest!--I am heart-broken--pity!

R.

THE LAST CHAPTER.

THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.

_Rodolph to Clemence._

The thirteenth of January! Now a doubly sinister anniversary!
Dearest, we have lost her for ever! All is over,--ended all. It
is true, then, that there is a horrid pleasure in relating a
terrible grief.

Yesterday I was complaining of the necessity that kept you from
me; to-day, Clemence, I congratulate myself that you are not
here,--you would have suffered too much. This morning I was in a
light slumber, and was awakened by the sound of bells. I started
in affright; it seemed to me a funereal sound,--a knell! In
fact, our daughter is dead,--dead to us! And from to-day,
Clemence, you must begin to wear her m