eaceful slumber and awoke
with a heart overflowing with pure and holy joy at the thought that she
was about to heroically crown a life devoted to duty and to abnegation.
She did not underrate the sacrifice she was to make; but she knew that
the death would not be without moral grandeur, and even while she
comprehended that she had exceeded the limit of the obligations which
duty imposed upon her, she felt no agitation, no regret.

She rose early and arrayed herself with more than usual care. The dress
she selected was of gray cashmere. Her shoulders were covered with a
silk fichu of the same color, knotted behind at the waist. Upon her head
she wore one of the tall, plumed felt hats in fashion at the time, and
from which her golden hair descended in heavy braids upon her white
neck. Never had she been more beautiful. The light of immortality seemed
to beam in her lovely face; and the serenity of her heart, the
enthusiasm that inspired her and the fervor of her religious faith
imparted an inexpressible charm to her features. When her toilet was
completed, she knelt, and for an hour her soul ascended in fervent
aspiration to the God in whom she had placed her trust. Her heart was
deeply touched: but there were no tears in her eyes.

"Death," she thought, "is only a journey to a better life. In the
unknown world to which my soul will take flight, I shall rejoin those
whom I love and who have gone before: the Marquis, whose benevolence
sheltered me from misery and want; his wife, who lavished all a mother's
tenderness upon me; my mother, herself, who died soon after giving me
birth. For those I leave behind me I shall wait on high, watching over
them, and praying for their peace and happiness."

These consoling thoughts crowded in upon her as if to strengthen her in
her last moments by hopes which render the weakest natures strong and
indomitable, even before the most frightful suffering. She rose calm and
tranquil, and approached Antoinette's bedside. She was sleeping soundly.
Dolores looked at her a moment with loving, pitying eyes.

"May my death assure your happiness," she murmured, softly; "and may
Philip love you as fondly as I have loved him!"

She left the cell. In the corridor, she met Aubry, who was in search of
her.

"Your friend Coursegol is waiting for you below," he said, sadly.

"Oh! thank you," she quickly and cheerfully rejoined.

She hastened down. Coursegol was there. He was very pale, his face wa