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owledge. "But supposing he asks?" said I. "Say any soothing thing your ready wit may suggest, my dear young lady. But the truth, in his present condition, would be a fatal shock." It haunted me. "Supposing he asks." And late in the evening he did ask! I was alone with him, and he called me. "Marguerite, dear child, thou wilt tell me the truth. Why does my wife, my Victoire, thy grandmother, not come to me?" Pondering what lie I could tell him, and how, an irresistible impulse seized me. I bent over him and said: "Dear sir, the King has summoned the Duchess." Does the mind regain power as the body fails? My great-grandfather turned his head, and, as his blue eyes met mine, I could not persuade myself that he was deceived. "The will of his Majesty be done," he said faintly but firmly. The next few moments seemed like years. Had I done wrong? Had it done him harm? Above all, what did he mean? Were his words part of one last graceful dream of the dynasty of the white lilies, or was his loyal submission made now to a Majesty not of France, not even of this world? It was an intense relief to me when he spoke again. "Marguerite!" I knelt by the bedside, and he laid his hand upon my head. An exquisite smile shone on his face. "Good child; pauvre petite! His Majesty will call me also, before long. Is it not so? And then thou shalt rest." His fine face clouded again with a wandering, troubled look, and his fingers fumbled the bed-clothes. I saw that he had lost his crucifix in moving his hand to my head. I gave it him, and he clasped his hands over it once more, and carrying it to his lips with a smile, closed his eyes like some good child going to sleep. And Thou, O King of kings, didst summon him, as the dark faded into dawn! CHAPTER XXIX. HOME AGAIN--HOME NEWS--THE VERY END. Now it is past it seems like a dream, my life at The Vine, with its sad end, if indeed that can be justly called a sad end which took away together, and with little pain, those dear souls whose married life had not known the parting of a day, and who in death were not (even by a day) divided. And so I went back to the moors. I was weak and ill when I started, but every breath of air on my northward journey seemed to bring me strength. There are no events in that porter's life, I am convinced. He looked just the same, and took me and my boxes quite coolly, though I felt inclined to shake hands with him in
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