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Rh creak on its hinges; then his whole heart beats wildly as the outer latch is lifted; and holding the light above her supernatural head, Isabel stands before him. It is herself. No word is spoken; no other soul is seen. They enter the room of the double-casement; and Pierre sits down, overpowered with bodily faintness and spiritual awe. He lifts his eyes to Isabel's gaze of loveliness and loneliness; and then a low, sweet, half-sobbing voice of more than natural musicalness is heard:—

'And so, thou art my brother;—shall I call thee Pierre?'

Steadfastly, with his one first and last fraternal inquisition of the person of the mystic girl, Pierre now for an instant eyes her; and in that one instant sees in the imploring face, not only the nameless touchingness of that of the sewing-girl, but also the subtler expression of the portrait of his then youthful father, strangely translated, and intermarryingly blended with some before unknown, foreign feminineness. In one breath, Memory and Prophecy and Intuition tell him—'Pierre, have no reserves; no minutest possible doubt;—this being is thy sister; thou gazest on thy father's flesh.'

'And so thou art my brother?—shall I call thee Pierre?'

He sprang to his feet, and caught her in his undoubting arms.

'Thou art! thou art!'

He felt a faint struggling within his clasp; her head drooped against him; his whole form was bathed in the flowing glossiness of her long and unimprisoned hair. Brushing the locks aside, he now gazed upon the deathlike beauty of the face, and caught immortal sadness from it. She seemed as dead; as suffocated,—the death that leaves most unimpaired the latent tranquillities and sweetnesses of the human countenance.

He would have called aloud for succour; but the slow eyes opened upon him; and slowly he felt the girl's