going away?"

"Yes, Sesoeur."

"Then she is dearer to you than I!" spoke Ma'ame Pelagie with sharp
resentment. "Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you
were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could
cherish you. Pauline, don't tell me that."

Mam'selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs.

"I can't explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don't understand it myself. I
love you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes
away I shall die. I can't understand,--help me, Sesoeur. She seems--she
seems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand and
was leading me somewhere-somewhere I want to go."

Ma'ame Pelagie had been sitting beside the bed in her peignoir and
slippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed
down the woman's soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence
was broken only by Mam'selle Pauline's continued sobs. Once Ma'ame
Pelagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to
her sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child.
Almost an hour passed before Ma'ame Pelagie spoke again. Then she
said:--

"Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make
yourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you
understand? She will stay, I promise you."

Mam'selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith
in the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of
Ma'ame Pelagie's strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep.

III

Ma'ame Pelagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly
and stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not
linger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she crossed
the distance that divided her cabin from the ruin.

The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon
resplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma'ame
Pelagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at
night-time, when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had
been there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for the
last time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had
crowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell.

There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a robust
old white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late. There are
guests to be ent