of her sovereigns--the bleeding head of her husband,
torn from her in the days of their early love; in the midst of these
agonizing thoughts, she gave birth to a posthumous child--the heroine
of our story. Clasping her babe to her breast, Madame Dumesnil
bitterly recalled the many plans of happiness her murdered husband had
made in anticipation of its coming--his affection for _her_--his
anxiety for her safety--their parting, and the subsequent news of his
execution. Those lips were mute whose words of tenderness were to
soothe her in her hour of suffering; that hand was cold that would
have rested on her brow; that heart was still that would have bounded
with a father's love at sight of the tiny, helpless creature that lay
upon her arm.

Madame Dumesnil, the young, the lovely, and the gentle, became silent,
reserved, and harsh. Nothing could swerve her from a determination
made, and with feelings of the deepest parental affection for her
daughter, she had crushed and broken her spirit in the sweet
spring-time of her childhood.

From the time Pauline was old enough to form a desire, she learned to
hear it opposed. "_Une petite fille attend qu'on lui donne se qui lui
faut_," was the invariable reply to all her childish longings.
According to the old French system, every slight offence was followed
by her mother's "_Allez vous coucher, mademoiselle_;" so that half her
life was spent in bed, while she lay awake with the bright, broad
daylight around her, the hour when other children are strengthening
their little limbs in the active enjoyment of God's free, fresh air.

As she grew older, she was taught that "_une demoiselle bien elevee
n'a pas d'opinions_," that her parents judged and decided for her;
and while she sat erect upon a high stool, accomplishing her daily
tasks in silence, her heart nearly burst with the pent-up feelings of
her young imagination. Wherever she went her mother's old
waiting-woman was behind her. "Miss Pauline, hold yourself straight;
Miss Pauline, turn out your feet--your head, mademoiselle--your arms!"
Poor girl! she was well-nigh distracted with these incessant
admonitions.

In her walks she met Angela Percy and her father. They had lately
settled in the neighborhood, and having no acquaintances, gladly made
advances to the timid Pauline. Nothing daunted by her shyness and
reserve, Angela, some years her senior, persevered, and overcame it.
She was an enthusiastic, high-minded girl, and so