e neck, and murmured, "O my dear friend, I
_am_ tired, _so_ tired!"

Madame led her to the settee, and arranged her head comfortably on its
pillows. Then, giving her a motherly kiss, she said, "Rest, darling,
while Tulee and I look after the boxes."

When they had all passed into another room, she threw up her hands and
exclaimed: "How she's changed! How thin and pale she is! How large her
eyes look! But she's beautiful as an angel."

"I never see Missy Rosy but once when she wasn't beautiful as an
angel," said Tulee; "and that was the night Massa Duroy told her she
was sold to Massa Bruteman. Then she looked as if she had as many
devils as that Mary Magdalene Massa Royal used to read about o'
Sundays."

"No wonder, poor child!" exclaimed Madame. "But I hope the little one
is some comfort to her."

"She ha'n't taken much notice of him, or anything else, since Massa
Duroy told her that news," rejoined Tulee.

Madame took the baby and tried to look into its face as well as the
lopping motions of its little head would permit. "I shouldn't think
she'd have much comfort in looking at it," said she; "for it's the
image of its father; but the poor little dear ain't to blame for
that."

An animated conversation followed concerning what had happened since
Tulee went away,--especially the disappearance of Flora. Both hinted
at having entertained similar suspicions, but both had come to the
conclusion that she could not be alive, or she would have written.

Rosa, meanwhile, left alone in the little parlor, where she had
listened so anxiously for the whistling of _Ca ira_, was scarcely
conscious of any other sensation than the luxury of repose, after
extreme fatigue of body and mind. There was, indeed, something
pleasant in the familiar surroundings. The parrot swung in the same
gilded ring in her cage. Madame's table, with its basket of chenilles,
stood in the same place, and by it was her enamelled snuffbox. Rosa
recognized a few articles that had been purchased at the auction of
her father's furniture;--his arm-chair, and the astral lamp by which
he used to sit to read his newspaper; a sewing-chair that was her
mother's; and one of Flora's embroidered slippers, hung up for a
watch-case. With these memories floating before her drowsy eyes, she
fell asleep, and slept for a long time. As her slumbers grew lighter,
dreams of father, mother, and sister passed through various changes;
the last of which was that Flora was pu