it is to you."

With increasing excitement and curiosity, Rose continued:

"After all, my dear Eva, things which appear very extraordinary, may
often be explained by a chance resemblance or a freak of nature. Marvels
being always the result of optical illusion or heated fancy, a time must
come, when that which appeared to be superhuman or supernatural, will
prove to be the most simple and natural event in the world. I doubt not,
therefore, that the things, which we denominate our prodigies, will one
day receive this commonplace solution."

"You see, my children--things appear marvelous, which at bottom are
quite simple--though for a long time we understand nothing about them."

"As our father relates this, we must believe it, and not be
astonished--eh, sister?"

"Yes, truly--since it will all be explained one day."

"For example," said Dagobert, after a moment's reflection, "you two
are so much alike, that any one, who was not in the habit of seeing you
daily, might easily take one for the other. Well! if they did not know
that you are, so to speak,'doubles,' they might think an imp was at work
instead of such good little angels as you are."

"You are right, Dagobert; in this way many things may be explained, even
as our father says." And Rose continued to read:

"Not without pride, my gentle Eva, have I learned that Djalma has French
blood in his veins. His father married, some years ago, a young girl,
whose family, of French origin, had long been settled at Batavia in the
island of Java. This similarity of circumstances between my old friend
and myself--for your family also, my Eva, is of French origin, and long
settled in a foreign land--has only served to augment my sympathy for
him. Unfortunately, he has long had to mourn the loss of the wife whom
he adored.

"See, my beloved Eva! my hand trembles as I write these words. I am
weak--I am foolish--but, alas! my heart sinks within me. If such a
misfortune were to happen to me--Oh, my God!--what would become of our
child without thee--without his father--in that barbarous country?
But no! the very fear is madness; and yet what a horrible torture is
uncertainty! Where may you now be? What are you doing? What has become
of you? Pardon these black thoughts, which are sometimes too much for
me. They are the cause of my worst moments--for, when free from them,
I can at least say to myself: I am proscribed, I am every way
unfortunate--but, at the other end of the