communion.

The apartment wore that melancholy aspect common to death chambers; a
look of despairing farewell. Medicine bottles littered the furniture;
linen lay in the corners into which it had been kicked or swept. The very
chairs looked, in their disarray, as if they were terrified and had run
in all directions. Death--terrible Death--was in the room,
hidden, awaiting his prey.

This history of the two sisters was an affecting one. It was spoken of
far and wide; it had drawn tears from many eyes.

Suzanne, the elder, had once been passionately loved by a young man,
whose affection she returned. They were engaged to be married, and the
wedding day was at hand, when Henry de Sampierre suddenly died.

The young girl's despair was terrible, and she took an oath never to
marry. She faithfully kept her vow and adopted widow's weeds for the
remainder of her life.

But one morning her sister, her little sister Marguerite, then only
twelve years old, threw herself into Suzanne's arms, sobbing: "Sister, I
don't want you to be unhappy. I don't want you to mourn all your life.
I'll never leave you--never, never, never! I shall never marry,
either. I'll stay with you always--always!"

Suzanne kissed her, touched by the child's devotion, though not putting
any faith in her promise.

But the little one kept her word, and, despite her parents'
remonstrances, despite her elder sister's prayers, never married. She was
remarkably pretty and refused many offers. She never left her sister.

They spent their whole life together, without a single day's separation.
They went everywhere together and were inseparable. But Marguerite was
pensive, melancholy, sadder than her sister, as if her sublime sacrifice
had undermined her spirits. She grew older more quickly; her hair was
white at thirty; and she was often ill, apparently stricken with some
unknown, wasting malady.

And now she would be the first to die.

She had not spoken for twenty-four hours, except to whisper at daybreak:

"Send at once for the priest."

And she had since remained lying on her back, convulsed with agony, her
lips moving as if unable to utter the dreadful words that rose in her
heart, her face expressive of a terror distressing to witness.

Suzanne, distracted with grief, her brow pressed against the bed, wept
bitterly, repeating over and over again the words:

"Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!"

She had always called her "my little one," whil