he
smiled and extended her hands.

"Kiss her, but do not take her," said the Marquis. "You are not strong
enough for that yet."

Tiepoletta understood and obeyed. Then she said gently in bad French:

"My Dolores."

"Dolores! That is a pretty name!" remarked Coursegol, pleased to hear
the poor woman speak.

"You will keep her, will you not?" said Tiepoletta, entreatingly. "You
will not give her to those who will maltreat her? Make an honest girl of
her. Teach her not to scorn the poor gypsies. Tell her that her father
and her mother belonged to that despised race."

She uttered these phrases slowly, speaking, not without difficulty,
French words that would clearly express her meaning.

"Have no fears," replied Coursegol. "The child shall want for nothing.
Rest in peace."

"Yes," she repeated, "rest in death."

"She talks of dying!" exclaimed the Marquis. The words had hardly left
his lips when the woman rose and extended her arms. Her features
contracted; her large eyes seemed to start from her head; she placed her
hand upon her heart, uttered a shrill cry and fell back upon the bed. It
was the work of an instant. Coursegol and the Marquis both sprang
forward, lifted her, and endeavored to restore her, but in vain. The
unfortunate Tiepoletta was dead. Her heart had broken like a fragile
vase, shattered by the successive misfortunes she had undergone. A great
tear fell from the eyes of Coursegol.

"Poor woman!" said he.

"What shall we do with the child?" inquired the Marquis. "I would like
to keep her and rear her. Heaven has sent her here; but who will act as
a mother to the poor little waif? The condition of the Marquise renders
it impossible for her to do so."

As he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion. It was not only because he
was touched by the sight before him, but because the words he had
uttered reminded him of his own misfortunes.

"If Monsieur le Marquis would but grant my request," said Coursegol,
timidly.

"What is your request?"

"I have no wife, no child. The little apartment that I occupy is very
gloomy when M. Philip is not with me. If you will consent to it, Dolores
shall be my daughter."

"Your daughter, but who would take care of her?"

"Oh! I will attend to that. I know some very worthy people in Remoulins.
The woman has a young child. She will have milk enough for this little
thing too. I will entrust the child to her for a time."

"Very well; I have no objection, Course