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 her father's arm-chair and pressing to her lips the old man's icy hands.

"Great God!" I cried, when by the dim light in the room I could distinguish the chevalier's livid face. "Is our father dead?"

"Perhaps," she said, in a stifled voice; "perhaps he has only fainted, please God! But, a light, for Heaven's sake! Ring the bell! He has only been in this state for a moment."

I rang in all haste. The abbé now came in, and fortunately we succeeded in bringing my uncle back to life.

But when he opened his eyes, his mind seemed to be struggling against the impressions of a fearful dream.

"Has he gone? Has the vile phantom gone?" he repeated several times. "Ho, there, Saint-Jean! My pistols! Now, my men! Throw the fellow out of the window!"

I began to suspect the truth.

"What has happened?" I said to Edmée, in a low tone. "Who has been here in my absence?"

"If I told you," answered Edmée, "you would hardly believe it. You would think my father and I were mad. But I will tell you everything presently; let us attend to him."

With her soft words and loving attentions she succeeded in calming the old man. We carried him to his room, and he fell into a quiet sleep. When Edmée had gently withdrawn her hand from his and lowered the wadded curtain over his head, she joined the abbé and myself, and told us that a quarter of an hour before we returned a mendicant friar had entered the drawing-room, where, as usual, she was embroidering near her father,