“You do not”—­said Ebba, with as much evidence of surprise, as if she had said you do not believe in the sun or moon.  “I do, and I think this matter plain and evident as the existence of God, to whom we are indebted for all our faculties.  God endows us with that intuition of secret events, that species of devotion, sometimes as an act of mercy to prepare us for a misfortune which will overtake us, sometimes in mercy to point out to us the consequences of the concealed peril in which we are engaged.

“Even you, who seem not to believe in presentiments, have more than once been seized with an involuntary apprehension.  This dread, this sadness, is the antecedent of the tempest.  It announces regret, accident, and unforeseen distress.  Nay, I think we thus are informed of dangers which menace one we love.  I think there is a real link between souls which love each other, a mysterious tie, an invisible union, so powerful however, that how great soever the distance may be, one cannot suffer without the other being unhappy; I will even say, that I think these bonds exist between the living and the dead, that the chilly grave does not crush all love, that the dead are touched by the tears we shed for them, and by the fidelity of our affections to them.  I will not in this connection repeat to you stories of apparitions, ghost stories, etc.  If you do not believe what I say, you will also doubt all popular anecdotes.  There are sentiments which cannot be demonstrated, inductions and revelations which austere reason rejects, and casts amid the empire of dreams, which exert a great influence over the heart.  I saw one night my mother standing at the foot of my bed.  She died when I was born.  She leaned over me and kissed my forehead.  Her lips seemed cold as ice, yet her kiss burned me.  She looked at me for a moment in silence, and her large blue eyes were filled with tears.  She then slowly withdrew, and as she did so, opened her arms to call me to her.  Once again, as I opened a door I saw myself, pale as my father used to describe my mother to me, and clad in a long, white robe, which fell about me like a shroud.  Old people will tell you there is no more certain sign of death, and I am sure I shall not live long.  For that reason I do not attach myself to this world, nor indulge as others do in reveries about the future.”

This conviction of Ebba was evidently deeply rooted that Ireneus knew not how reply to it.  He, however, sought to represent to Ebba that these impressions should not be taken too seriously to heart, and that at her age, and with her qualities, she should not anticipate a sacrifice of existence, nor give up the joys and hopes of life.

Ebba said nothing.  She, however, looked long and moodily at him, clasped his hand and left him.

Ireneus was yet more desolate than he had been during the days preceding Alete’s marriage.  A letter from one of his friends greatly excited him.  This friend informed him that the legitimist party was about to attempt the reconquest of the realm.  The Duchess de Berry had left Scotland, for Massa, thence she had opened a correspondence with many provinces.  La Vendee and the south opened their arms to her, and crowds of devoted servants had pledged themselves to her.