ired,
then, with a strange solemnity, which was entirely new in her, she went
up to Isabelle, and timidly taking her hand, said:

"My knife is in Agostino's heart. I have no master now, and I must
devote myself to somebody. Next to him who is dead I love you best of
all the world. You gave me the pearl necklace I wished for, and you
kissed me. Will you have me for your servant, your slave, your dog? Only
give me a black dress, so that I may wear mourning for my lost love--it
is all I ask. I will sleep on the floor outside your door, so that
I shall not be in your way. When you want me, whistle for me, like
this,"--and she whistled shrilly--"and I will come instantly. Will you
have me?"

In answer Isabelle drew Chiquita into her arms, pressed her lips to
the girl's forehead warmly, and thankfully accepted this soul, that
dedicated itself to her.

CHAPTER XXI. HYMEN! OH HYMEN!

Isabelle, accustomed to Chiquita's odd, enigmatical ways, had refrained
from questioning her--waiting to ask for explanations until the poor
girl should have become more quiet, and able to give them. She could see
that some terrible catastrophe must have occurred, which had left all
her nerves quivering, and caused the strong shudders that passed over
her in rapid succession; but the child had rendered her such good
service, in her own hour of need, that she felt the least she could
do was to receive and care for the poor little waif tenderly, without
making any inquiries as to her evidently desperate situation. After
giving her in charge to her own maid, with orders that she should be
properly clothed, and made thoroughly comfortable in every way, Isabelle
resumed her reading--or rather tried to resume it; but her thoughts
would wander, and after mechanically turning over a few pages in a
listless way, she laid the book down, beside her neglected embroidery,
on a little table at her elbow. Leaning her head on her hand, and
closing her eyes, she lapsed into a sorrowful reverie--as, indeed, she
had done of late many times every day.

"Oh! what has become of de Sigognac?" she said to herself. "Where can he
be? and does he still think of me, and love me as of old? Yes, I am
sure he does; he will be true and faithful to me so long as he lives, my
brave, devoted knight! I fear that he has gone back to his desolate,
old chateau, and, believing that my brother is dead, does not dare to
approach me. It must be that chimerical obstacle that stands