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Rh Beatrice would sit beside, her arm round her neck; and her poor mother seemed, like a child, happy in being soothed and caressed. There is mercy in affliction; Donna Margaretta's memory could only have awakened to sorrow, and she died without a pang or a struggle, so quietly, that Beatrice, in whose embrace she lay, thought it was sleep. Wishing to wake her at her usual hour for refreshment, she kissed her—the chill of the lips made her shudder—she leant over them for a minute—the breath had passed away for ever. Donna Margaretta's death was a blessing, but Beatrice could not think so at the time; her few objects for affection had made that affection proportionably intense. She had lost the only being she could serve—the only one to whom her care and kindness were of value—and we all know how they endear the objects on which they are bestowed—the whole business of her life was gone. Perhaps the worst pang of death is the burial. One touch of human weakness mingled with the young Spaniard's sorrow. She was proud—very proud of her high and noble birth. A hundred chiefs of her blood slept in the chapel of San Francisco. But since the confiscation