legram had come. Her son and
daughter would arrive next morning early. They waited for a moment of
consciousness to tell her; but the day went by, and in spite of oxygen
and brandy it did not come. She was sinking fast; her only movements
were a tiny compression now and then of the lips, a half-opening of the
eyes, and once a smile when the parrot spoke. The rally came at eight
o'clock. _Mademoiselle_ was sitting by the couch when the voice came
fairly strong: "Give my love to my dear soldiers, and take them their
francs out of my purse, please. Augustine, take care of Polly. I want to
see if the emerald ring fits you. Take it off, please"; and, when it had
been put on the little finger of the sobbing girl: "There, you see, it
does. That's very nice. Your sweetheart will like that when you have
one. What do you say, _Mademoiselle_? My son and daughter coming? All
that way?" The lips smiled a moment, and then tears forced their way
into her eyes. "My darlings! How good of them! Oh! what a cold journey
they'll have! Get my room ready, Augustine, with a good fire! What are
you crying for? Remember what Polly says: 'Keep smiling!' Think how bad
it is for the poor soldiers if we women go crying! The Queen never
cries, and she has ever so much to make her!"

No one could tell whether she knew that she was dying, except perhaps
for those words, "Take care of Polly," and the gift of the ring.

She did not even seem anxious as to whether she would live to see her
children. Her smile moved _Mademoiselle_ to whisper to Augustine: "_Elle
a la sourire divine_."

"_Ah! mademoiselle, comme elle est brave, la pauvre dame! C'est qu'elle
pense toujours aux autres._" And the girl's tears dropped on the emerald
ring.

Night fell--the long night; would she wake again? Both watched with her,
ready at the faintest movement to administer oxygen and brandy. She was
still breathing, but very faintly, when at six o'clock they heard the
express come in, and presently the carriage stop before the house.
_Mademoiselle_ stole down to let them in.

Still in their travelling coats her son and daughter knelt down beside
the couch, watching in the dim candle-light for a sign and cherishing
her cold hands. Daylight came; they put the shutters back and blew out
the candles. Augustine, huddled in the far corner, cried gently to
herself. _Mademoiselle_ had withdrawn. But the two still knelt, tears
running down their cheeks. The face of their mother was