, and as his eyes rested on the calm, beautiful
countenance--which had always worn such a pathetic, mournful expression
that it used to make his heart ache to look at it in his boyish days--it
seemed to smile upon him. He was startled for an instant, and then,
thrilling with a strange, exquisite delight, and inspired with new hope
and courage, he said in a low, earnest tone, "I accept my dear dead
mother's smile as a good omen--perhaps all may not be lost even yet--I
will try to believe so."

After a moment of silent thought, he went on into his own chamber, and
put down the small lamp he carried, upon the little table, where still
lay the stray volume of Ronsard's poems that he had been reading--or
rather trying to read--on that tempestuous night when the old pedant
knocked at his door. And there was his bed, where Isabelle had
slept--the very pillow upon which her dear head had rested. He trembled
as he stood and gazed at it, and saw, as in a vision, the perfect form
lying there again in his place, and the sweetest face in all the world
turned towards him, with a tender smile parting the ripe red lips, a
rosy flush mantling in the delicate cheeks, and warm lovelight
shining in the deep blue eyes. He stood spell-bound--afraid to move
or breathe--and worshipped the beautiful vision with all his soul
and strength, as if it had been indeed divine--but alas! it faded as
suddenly as it had appeared, and he felt as if the doors of heaven had
been shut upon him. He hastily undressed, and threw himself down in
the place where Isabelle had actually reposed; passionately kissed the
pillow that had been hallowed by the touch of her head, and bedewed it
with his tears. He lay long awake, thinking of the angelic being who
loved him and whom he adored, whilst Beelzebub, rolled up in a ball,
slept at his feet, and snored like the traditional cat of Mahomet, that
lay and slumbered upon the prophet's sleeve.

When morning came, de Sigognac was more impressed than ever with the
dilapidated, crumbling condition of his ancient mansion. Daylight has
no mercy upon old age and ruins; it reveals with cruel distinctness the
wrinkles, gray hairs, poverty, misery, stains, fissures, dust and mould
in which they abound; but more kindly night softens or conceals all
defects, with its friendly shade, spreading over them its mantle of
darkness. The rooms that used to seem so vast to their youthful owner
had shrunken, and looked almost small and insi