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FLORACITA was still in the full career of fun, when
footsteps were heard approaching; and, as usual, she
bounded forth to welcome her father. Several men, bearing
a palanquin on their shoulders, were slowly ascending
the piazza. She gave one glance at their burden, and uttered
a shrill scream. Rosabella hastened to her in great
alarm. Tulipa followed, and quickly comprehending that
something terrible had happened, she hurried away to
summon Madame Guirlande. Rosabella, pale and trembling,
gasped out, “What has happened to my father?”

Franz Blumenthal, a favorite clerk of Mr. Royal's, replied,
in a low, sympathizing tone, “He was writing letters
in the counting-room this afternoon, and when I went in to
speak to him, I found him on the floor senseless. We
called a doctor immediately, but he failed to restore him.”

“O, call another doctor!” said Rosa, imploringly; and
Floracita almost shrieked, “Tell me where to go for a
doctor.”

“We have already summoned one on the way,” said
young Blumenthal, “but I will go to hasten him”;—and,
half blinded by his tears, he hurried into the street.

The doctor came in two minutes, and yet it seemed an
age. Meanwhile the wretched girls were chafing their father's
cold hands, and holding sal-volatile to his nose, while
Madame Guirlande and Tulipa were preparing hot water
and hot cloths. When the physician arrived, they watched
his countenance anxiously, while he felt the pulse and laid

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his hand upon the heart. After a while he shook his head
and said, “Nothing can be done. He is dead.”

Rosabella fell forward, fainting, on the body. Floracita
uttered shriek upon shriek, while Madame Guirlande and
Tulipa vainly tried to pacify her. The doctor at last persuaded
her to swallow some valerian, and Tulipa carried
her in her arms and laid her on the bed. Madame Guirlande
led Rosa away, and the two sisters lay beside each
other, on the same pillows where they had dreamed such
happy dreams the night before. Floracita, stunned by the
blow that had fallen on her so suddenly, and rendered
drowsy by the anodyne she had taken, soon fell into an
uneasy slumber, broken by occasional starts and stifled
sobs. Rosabella wept silently, but now and then a shudder
passed over her, that showed how hard she was struggling
with grief. After a short time, Flora woke up
bewildered. A lamp was burning in the farther part of
the room, and Madame Guirlande, who sat there in spectacles
and ruffled cap, made a grotesque black shadow on
the wall. Floracita started up, screaming, “What is
that?” Madame Guirlande went to her, and she and
Rosa spoke soothingly, and soon she remembered all.

“O, let me go home with you,” she said to Madame
“I am afraid to stay here.”

“Yes, my children,” replied the good Frenchwoman.
“You had better both go home and stay with me to-night.”

“I cannot go away and leave him alone,” murmured
Rosa, in tones almost inaudible.

“Franz Blumenthal is going to remain here,” replied
Madame Guirlande, “and Tulipa has offered to sit up all
night. It is much better for you to go with me than to
stay here, my children.”

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Thus exhorted, they rose and began to make preparations
for departure. But all at once the tender good-night
of the preceding evening rushed on Rosa's memory, and she
sank down in a paroxysm of grief. After weeping bitterly
for some minutes, she sobbed out, “O, this is worse than
it was when Mamita died. Papasito was so tender with
us then; and now we are all alone.”

“Not all alone,” responded Madame. “Jesus and the
Blessed Virgin are with you.”

“O, I don't know where they are!” exclaimed Flora, in
tones of wild agony. “I want my Papasito! I want to die
and go to my Papasito.”

Rosabella folded her in her arms, and they mingled their
tears together, as she whispered: “Let us try to be tranquil,
Sistita. We must not be troublesome to our kind
friend. I did wrong to say we were all alone. We have
always a Father in heaven, and he still spares us to love
each other. Perhaps, too, our dear Papasito is watching
over us. You know he used to tell us Mamita had become
our guardian angel.”

Floracita kissed her, and pressed her hand in silence.
Then they made preparations to go with their friendly
neighbor; all stepping very softly, as if afraid of waking
the beloved sleeper.

The sisters had lived in such extreme seclusion, that
when sorrow came upon them, like the sudden swoop and
swift destruction of a tropical storm, they had no earthly
friend to rely upon but Madame Guirlande. Only the day
before, they had been so rich in love, that, had she passed
away from the earth, it would have made no distressing
change in their existence. They would have said, “Poor
Madame Guirlande! She was a good soul. How patient

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she used to be with us!” and after a day or two, they
would have danced and sung the same as ever. But one
day had so beggared them in affection, that they leaned
upon her as their only earthly support.

After an almost untasted breakfast, they all went back to
the desolated home. The flowery parlor seemed awfully
lonesome. The piano was closed, the curtains drawn, and
their father's chair was placed against the wall. The murmur
of the fountain sounded as solemn as a dirge, and memories
filled the room like a troop of ghosts. Hand in hand,
the bereaved ones went to kiss the lips that would speak to
them no more in this world. They knelt long beside the
bed, and poured forth their breaking hearts in prayer.
They rose up soothed and strengthened, with the feeling
that their dear father and mother were still near them.
They found a sad consolation in weaving garlands and
flowery crosses, which they laid on the coffin with tender
reverence.

When the day of the funeral came, Madame Guirlande
kept them very near her, holding a hand of each. She had
provided them with long veils, which she requested them
not to remove; for she remembered how anxiously their
father had screened their beauty from the public gaze.
A number of merchants, who had known and respected Mr.
Royal, followed his remains to the grave. Most of them
had heard of his quadroon connection, and some supposed
that the veiled mourners might be his daughters; but such
things were too common to excite remark, or to awaken
much interest. The girls passed almost unnoticed; having,
out of respect to the wishes of their friend, stifled their
sobs till they were alone in the carriage with her and their
old music-teacher.

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The conviction that he was not destined to long life,
which Mr. Royal had expressed to Alfred King, was
founded on the opinion of physicians that his heart was
diseased. This furnished an additional motive for closing
his business as soon as possible, and taking his children to
France. But the failure of several houses with which he
was connected brought unexpected entanglements. Month
by month, these became more complicated, and necessarily
delayed the intended emigration. His anxiety concerning
his daughters increased to an oppressive degree, and aggravated
the symptoms of his disease. With his habitual
desire to screen them from everything unpleasant, he unwisely
concealed from them both his illness and his pecuniary
difficulties. He knew he could no longer be a rich
man; but he still had hope of saving enough of his fortune
to live in a moderate way in some cheap district of France.
But on the day when he bade his daughters good morning
so cheerfully, he received a letter informing him of another
extensive failure, which involved him deeply. He was
alone in his counting-room when he read it; and there
Franz Blumenthal found him dead, with the letter in his
hand. His sudden exit of course aroused the vigilance of
creditors, and their examination into the state of his affairs
proved anything but satisfactory.

The sisters, unconscious of all this, were undisturbed by
any anxiety concerning future support. The necessity of
living without their father's love and counsel weighed heavily
on their spirits; but concerning his money they took
no thought. Hitherto they had lived as the birds do, and
it did not occur to them that it could ever be otherwise.
The garden and the flowery parlor, which their mother had
created and their father had so dearly loved, seemed almost

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as much a portion of themselves as their own persons. It
had been hard to think of leaving them, even for the attractions
of Paris; and now that dream was over, it seemed a
necessity of their existence to live on in the atmosphere of
beauty to which they had always been accustomed. But
now that the sunshine of love had vanished from it, they
felt lonely and unprotected there. They invited Madame
Guirlande to come and live with them on what terms she
chose; and when she said there ought to be some elderly
man in the house, they at once suggested inviting their
music-teacher. Madame, aware of the confidence Mr. Royal
had always placed in him, thought it was the best arrangement
that could be made, at least for the present. While
preparations were being made to effect this change, her
proceedings were suddenly arrested by tidings that the
house and furniture were to be sold at auction, to satisfy
the demands of creditors. She kept back the unwelcome
news from the girls, while she held long consultations with
Signor Papanti. He declared his opinion that Rosabella
could make a fortune by her voice, and Floracita by
dancing.

“But then they are so young,” urged Madame,—“one
only sixteen, the other only fourteen.”

“Youth is a disadvantage one soon outgrows,” replied
the Signor. “They can't make fortunes immediately, of
course; but they can earn a living by giving lessons. I
will try to open a way for them, and the sooner you prepare
them for it the better.”

Madame dreaded the task of disclosing their poverty, but
she found it less painful than she had feared. They had
no realizing sense of what it meant, and rather thought that
giving lessons would be a pleasant mode of making time

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pass less heavily. Madame, who fully understood the condition
of things, kept a watchful lookout for their interests.
Before an inventory was taken, she gathered up and hid
away many trifling articles which would be useful to them,
though of little or no value to the creditors. Portfolios of
music, patterns for drawings, boxes of paint and crayons,
baskets of chenille for embroidery, and a variety of other
things, were safely packed away out of sight, without the
girls' taking any notice of her proceedings.

During her father's lifetime, Floracita was so continually
whirling round in fragmentary dances, that he often told
her she rested on her feet less than a humming-bird. But
after he was gone, she remained very still from morning till
night. When Madame spoke to her of the necessity of
giving dancing-lessons, it suggested the idea of practising.
But she felt that she could not dance where she had been
accustomed to dance before him; and she had not the heart
to ask Rosa to play for her. She thought she would try, in
the solitude of her chamber, how it would seem to give
dancing-lessons. But without music, and without a spectator,
it seemed so like the ghost of dancing that after a few
steps the poor child threw herself on the bed and sobbed.

Rosa did not open the piano for several days after the
funeral; but one morning, feeling as if it would be a relief
to pour forth the sadness that oppressed her, she began to
play languidly. Only requiems and prayers came. Half
afraid of summoning an invisible spirit, she softly touched
the keys to “The Light of other Days.” But remembering
it was the very last tune she ever played to her father,
she leaned her head forward on the instrument, and wept
bitterly.

While she sat thus the door-bell rang, and she soon

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became conscious of steps approaching the parlor. Her heart
gave a sudden leap; for her first thought was of Gerald
Fitzgerald. She raised her head, wiped away her tears,
and rose to receive the visitor. Three strangers entered.
She bowed to them, and they, with a little look of surprise,
bowed to her. “What do you wish for, gentlemen?” she
asked.

“We are here concerning the settlement of Mr. Royal's
estate,” replied one of them. “We have been appointed to
take an inventory of the furniture.”

While he spoke, one of his companions was inspecting
the piano, to see who was the maker, and another was
examining the timepiece.

It was too painful; and Rosa, without trusting herself to
speak another word, walked quietly out of the room, the
gathering moisture in her eyes making it difficult for her
to guide her steps.

“Is that one of the daughters we have heard spoken of?”
inquired one of the gentlemen.

“I judge so,” rejoined his companion. “What a royal
beauty she is! Good for three thousand, I should say.”

“More likely five thousand,” added the third. “Such a
fancy article as that don't appear in the market once in
fifty years.”

“Look here!” said the first speaker. “Do you see that
pretty little creature crossing the garden? I reckon that's
the other daughter.”

“They'll bring high prices,” continued the third speaker.
“They're the best property Royal has left. We may count
them eight or ten thousand, at least. Some of our rich
fanciers would jump at the chance of obtaining one of them
for that price.” As he spoke, he looked significantly at

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the first speaker, who refrained from expressing any opinion
concerning their pecuniary value.

All unconscious of the remarks she had elicited, Rosa
retired to her chamber, where she sat at the window
plunged in mournful revery. She was thinking of various
articles her mother had painted and embroidered, and
how her father had said he could not bear the thought of
their being handled by strangers. Presently Floracita
came running in, saying, in a flurried way, “Who are those
men down stairs, Rosa?”

“I don't know who they are,” replied her sister. “They
said they came to take an inventory of the furniture. I
don't know what right they have to do it. I wish Madame
would come.”

“I will run and call her,” said Floracita.

“No, you had better stay with me,” replied Rosa. “I
was just going to look for you when you came in.”

“I ran into the parlor first, thinking you were there,”
rejoined Floracita. “I saw one of those men turning
over Mamita's embroidered ottoman, and chalking something
on it. How dear papa would have felt if he had
seen it! One of them looked at me in such a strange
way! I don't know what he meant; but it made me want
to run away in a minute. Hark! I do believe they have
come up stairs, and are in papa's room. They won't come
here, will they?”

“Bolt the door!” exclaimed Rosa; and it was quickly
done. They sat folded in each other's arms, very much
afraid, though they knew not wherefore.

“Ah!” said Rosa, with a sigh of relief, “there is Madame
coming.” She leaned out of the window, and beckoned to
her impatiently.

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Her friend hastened her steps; and when she heard of
the strangers who were in the house, she said, “You had
better go home with me, and stay there till they are
gone.”

“What are they going to do?” inquired Floracita.

“I will tell you presently,” replied Madame, as she led
them noiselessly out of the house by a back way.

When they entered her own little parlor, the parrot
called out, “Joli petit diable!” and after waiting for the
old familiar response, “Bon jour, jolie Manon!” she began
to call herself “Jolie Manon!” and to sing, “Ha!
ha! petit blanc, mon bon frère!” The poor girls had no
heart for play; and Madame considerately silenced the
noisy bird by hanging a cloth over the cage.

“My dear children,” said she, “I would gladly avoid
telling you anything calculated to make you more unhappy.
But you must know the state of things sooner or
later, and it is better that a friend should tell you. Your
father owned money to those men, and they are seeing what
they can find to sell in order to get their pay.”

“Will they sell the table and boxes Mamita painted,
and the ottomans she embroidered?” inquired Rosa,
anxiously.

“Will they sell the piano that papa gave to Rosa for a
birthday present?” asked Flora.

“I am afraid they will,” rejoined Madame.

The girls covered their faces and groaned.

“Don't be so distressed, my poor children,” said their
sympathizing friend. “I have been trying to save a little
something for you. See here!” And she brought forth
some of the hidden portfolios and boxes, saying, “These
will be of great use to you, my darlings, in helping you to

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earn your living, and they would bring almost nothing at
auction.”

They thanked their careful friend for her foresight.
But when she brought forward their mother's gold watch
and diamond ring, Rosa said, “I would rather not keep
such expensive things, dear friend. You know our dear
father was the soul of honor. It would have troubled him
greatly not to pay what he owed. I would rather have
the ring and the watch sold to pay his debts.”

“I will tell the creditors what you say,” answered
Madame, “and they will be brutes if they don't let you keep
your mother's things. Your father owed Signor Papanti a
little bill, and he says he will try to get the table and boxes,
and some other things, in payment, and then you shall
have them all. You will earn enough to buy another
piano by and by, and you can use mine, you know; so
don't be discouraged, my poor children.”

“God has been very good to us to raise us up such
friends as you and the Signor,” replied Rosa. “You don't
know how it comforts me to have you call us your children,
for without you we should be all alone in the world.”

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