of mine who is just starting for
Algiers has a fine instrument and I will borrow it of him. Before
buying, you had better try one. It is possible that the powerful,
vibrating tones may be too much for you."

"Can I have it to-morrow?" she said, with the wilfulness of a creole.

"To-morrow?" said Monsieur Bernard, "that is soon; besides, to-morrow is
Sunday."

"Ah--" she exclaimed, looking at Godefroid, who fancied he could see a
soul hovering in the air as he admired the ubiquity of Vanda's glances.

Until then, Godefroid had never known the power of voice and eyes when
the whole of life is put into them. The glance was no longer a glance,
a look, it was a flame, or rather, a divine incandescence, a radiance,
communicating life and mind,--it was thought made visible. The voice,
with its thousand intonations, took the place of motions, gestures,
attitudes. The variations of the complexion, changing color like the
famous chameleon, made the illusion, perhaps we should say the mirage,
complete. That suffering head lying on the white pillow edged with laces
was a whole person in itself.

Never in his life had Godefroid seen so wonderful a sight; he could
scarcely control his emotions. Another wonder, for all was wondrous in
this scene, so full of horror and yet of poesy, was that in those who
saw it soul alone existed. This atmosphere, filled with mental emotions
only, had a celestial influence. Those present felt their bodies as
little as the sick woman felt hers. They were all mind. As Godefroid
contemplated that frail fragment of woman he forgot the surrounding
elegancies of the room, and fancied himself beneath the open heavens. It
was not until half an hour had passed that he came back to his sense
of things about him; he then noticed a fine picture, which the invalid
asked him to examine, saying it was by Gericault.

"Gericault," she told him, "came from Rouen; his family were under
certain obligations to my father, who was president of the court, and he
showed his gratitude by painting that portrait of me when I was a girl
of sixteen."

"It is a beautiful picture," said Godefroid; "and quite unknown to those
who are in search of the rare works of that master."

"To me it is merely an object of affection," replied Vanda; "I live in
my heart only,--and it is a beautiful life," she added, casting a look
at her father in which she seemed to put her very soul. "Ah! monsieur,
if you only knew what my father really