“Then, sister, this dream may be a warning—­it is so like that we had in Germany.”

“The difference being that then the Angel Gabriel came down from heaven to us, and that this time he takes us from earth, to our mother.”

“And this dream will perhaps come true, like the other, my sister.  We dreamt that the Angel Gabriel would protect us, and he came to save us from the shipwreck.”

“And, this time, we dream that he will lead us to heaven.  Why should not that happen also?”

“But to bring that about, sister, our Gabriel, who saved us from the shipwreck, must die also.  No, no; that must not happen.  Let us pray that it may not happen.”

“No, it will not happen—­for it is only Gabriel’s good angel, who is so like him, that we saw in our dreams.”

“Sister, dear, how singular is this dream!—­Here, as in Germany, we have both dreamt the same—­three times, the very same!”

“It is true.  The Angel Gabriel bent over us, and looked at us with so mild and sad an air, saying:  ’Come, my children! come, my sisters!  Your mother waits for you.  Poor children, arrived from so far!’ added he in his tender voice:  ’You have passed over the earth, gentle and innocent as two doves, to repose forever in the maternal nest.’”

“Yes, those were the words of the archangel,” said the other orphan, with a pensive air; “we have done no harm to any one, and we have loved those who loved us—­why should we fear to die?”

“Therefore, dear sister, we rather smiled than wept, when he took us by the hand, and, spreading wide his beautiful white wings, carried us along with him to the blue depths of the sky.”

“To heaven, where our dear mother waited for us with open arms, her face all bathed in tears.”

“Oh, sweet sister! one has not dreams like ours for nothing.  And then,” added she, looking at Rose, with a sad smile that went to the heart, “our death might perhaps end the sorrow, of which we have been the cause.”

“Alas! it is not our fault.  We love him so much.  But we are so timid and sorrowful before him, that he may perhaps think we love him not.”

So saying, Rose took her handkerchief from her workbasket, to dry her fears; a paper, folded in the form of a letter, fell out.

At this sight, the two shuddered, and pressed close to one mother, and Rose said to Blanche, in a trembling voice:  “Another of these letters!—­Oh, I am afraid!  It will doubtless be like the last.”

“We must pick it up quickly, that it may not be seen,” said Blanche, hastily stooping to seize the letter; “the people who take interest in us might otherwise be exposed to great danger.”

“But how could this letter come to us?”

“How did the others come to be placed right under our hand, and always in the absence of our duenna?”