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290 suddenly devout. Just then, an attendant to whom the Queen had whispered returned; and taking a small case from her hand, Anne produced a bracelet somewhat similar to the very one with which Francesca had parted, excepting that it had her cipher, surrounded by a wreath of fleurs-de-lis. "Louis, will you offer this to Mademoiselle Carrara?"

The young King again fastened the clasp on Francesca's arm. "I hope you have no more vows to pay?" said he, smiling.

Francesca could not have spoken, had it been to save her life; but there are cases in which silence is very eloquence.

"My dearest child," exclaimed Madame de Mercœur, "How I enjoyed your triumph! But do, pray, remember that royal gifts are meant to he kept. I must say, however, that the Madonna stood your friend to-night; and I am sure you deserved it."

Triumph it might be—it certainly was; but Francesca enjoyed it not as such. Injustice is so revolting to the young—they hear of it, they think of it, they believe in its existence, but always as of that which cannot affect themselves. It is a bitter lesson that which first brings it home. Many a moment of feverish unrest did that night