“See that you do it, man, if you value the repose of your own soul!” said Zelma, with an awful impressiveness, raising herself on one elbow and looking him out of the room.

When he was gone, she sunk back and murmured, partly to herself, partly to her little maid, who wept through all, the more that she did not understand,—­“I knew it was so; it was needless to ask.  Well, ’tis well; he will forgive me, now that I come when he calls me, accomplishing to the utmost my vow.  He will make peace with me, when I take my old place at his side,—­when my head shall lie as low as his,—­when he sees that all the laurels have dropped away,—­when he sees the sorrow shining through the dark of my hair in rifts of silver.”

After a little time she grew restless, and would return to her lodgings.

As the doctor and her attendant were about placing her in a sedan-chair to bear her away, a strange desire seized her to behold the theatre and tread the boards once more.  They conducted her to the centre of the stage, and seated her on the black couch of Calista.  There they left her quite alone for a while, and stood back where they could observe without disturbing her.  They saw her gaze about her dreamily and mournfully; then she seemed to be recalling and reciting some favorite part.  To their surprise, the tones of her voice were clear and resonant once more; and when she had ceased speaking, she rose and walked toward them, slowly, but firmly, turning once or twice to bow proudly and solemnly to an invisible audience.  Just before she reached them, she suddenly pressed her hand on her heart, and the next instant felt forward into the arms of her maid.  The young girl could not support the weight—­the dead weight, and sank with it to the floor.  Zelma had made her last exit.

THE MURDER OF THE INNOCENTS.

A SECOND EPISTLE TO DOLOROSUS.

So you are already mending, my dear fellow?  Can it be that my modest epistle has done so much service?  Are you like those invalids in Central Africa, who, when the medicine itself is not accessible, straightway swallow the written prescription as a substitute, inwardly digest it, and recover?  No,—­I think you have tested the actual materia medica recommended.  I hear of you from all directions, walking up hills in the mornings and down hills in the afternoons, skimming round in wherries like a rather unsteady water-spider, blistering your hands upon gymnastic bars, receiving severe contusions on your nose from cricket-balls, shaking up and down on hard-trotting horses, and making the most startling innovations in respect to eating, sleeping, and bathing.  Like all our countrymen, you are plunging from one extreme to the other.  Undoubtedly, you will soon make yourself sick again; but your present extreme is the safer of the two.  Time works many miracles; it has made Louis Napoleon espouse the cause of liberty, and it may yet make you reasonable.