“Of our mother, whom we shall only see again in heaven,” added Blanche.

The soldier raised the orphans, took each by the hand, and gazing from one to the other with ineffable affection, rendered still the more touching by the contrast of his rude features, “You must not give way thus, my children,” said he; “it is true your mother was the best of women.  When she lived in Poland, they called her the Pearl of Warsaw—­it ought to have been the Pearl of the Whole World—­for in the whole world you could not have found her match.  No—­no!”

The voice of Dagobert faltered; he paused, and drew his long gray moustache between finger and thumb, as was his habit.  “Listen, my girls,” he resumed, when he had mastered his emotion; “your mother could give you none but the best advice, eh?”

“Yes Dagobert.”

“Well, what instructions did she give you before she died?  To think often of her, but without grieving?”

“It is true; she told us than our Father in heaven, always good to poor mothers whose children are left on earth, would permit her to hear us from above,” said Blanche.

“And that her eyes would be ever fixed upon us,” added Rose.

And the two, by a spontaneous impulse, replete with the most touching grace, joined hands, raised their innocent looks to heaven, and exclaimed, with that beautiful faith natural to their age:  “Is it not so, mother?—­thou seest us?—­thou hearest us?”

“Since your mother sees and hears you,” said Dagobert, much moved, “do not grieve her by fretting.  She forbade you to do so.”

“You are right, Dagobert.  We will not cry any more.”—­And the orphans dried their eyes.

Dagobert, in the opinion of the devout, would have passed for a very heathen.  In Spain, he had found pleasure in cutting down those monks of all orders and colors, who, bearing crucifix in one hand, and poniard in the other, fought not for liberty—­the Inquisition had strangled her centuries ago—­but, for their monstrous privileges.  Yet, in forty years, Dagobert had witnessed so many sublime and awful scenes—­he had been so many times face to face with death—­that the instinct of natural religion, common to every simple, honest heart, had always remained uppermost in his soul.  Therefore, though he did not share in the consoling faith of the two sisters, he would have held as criminal any attempt to weaken its influence.

Seeing them this downcast, he thus resumed:  “That’s right, my pretty ones:  I prefer to hear you chat as you did this morning and yesterday—­laughing at times, and answering me when I speak, instead of being so much engrossed with your own talk.  Yes, yes, my little ladies! you seem to have had famous secrets together these last two days—­so, much the better, if it amuses you.”

The sisters colored, and exchanged a subdued smile, which contrasted with the tears that yet filled their eyes, and Rose said to the soldier, with a little embarrassment.  “No, I assure you, Dagobert, we talk of nothing in particular.”