rved the footman, and a
smile played about his mouth. 'True, but it was this very place,'
replied the woman, 'and it must have looked just like this.' 'It
looked so, and yet it did not,' observed the man: 'the windows were
beaten in, and the doors were off their hinges, and there was blood
upon the floor.' 'But for all that you can say, my grandson died upon
the throne of France. Died!' mournfully repeated the old woman. I do
not think another word was spoken, and they soon quitted the hall. The
evening twilight faded, and my light shone doubly vivid upon the rich
velvet that covered the throne of France.

"Now, who do you think this poor woman was? Listen, I will tell you a
story.

"It happened, in the Revolution of July, on the evening of the most
brilliantly victorious day, when every house was a fortress, every
window a breastwork. The people stormed the Tuileries. Even women and
children were to be found among the combatants. They penetrated into
the apartments and halls of the palace. A poor half-grown boy in a
ragged blouse fought among the older insurgents. Mortally wounded with
several bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This happened in the
throne-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the throne of France,
wrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his blood streamed forth
upon the imperial purple. There was a picture! the splendid hall, the
fighting groups! A torn flag lay upon the ground, the tricolor was
waving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay the poor lad with the
pale glorified countenance, his eyes turned towards the sky, his limbs
writhing in the death agony, his breast bare, and his poor tattered
clothing half hidden by the rich velvet embroidered with silver
lilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had been spoken: 'He will die
on the throne of France!' The mother's heart dreamt of a second
Napoleon.

"My beams have kissed the wreath of _immortelles_ on his grave, and
this night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while in a
dream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw--the poor
boy on the throne of France."

SIXTH EVENING.

"I've been in Upsala," said the Moon: "I looked down upon the great
plain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I
mirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the
fish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long
shadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the
scanty turf that