The daughter of a Huguenot! one banished from the Church--sold to the demon! ah! it is too horrible! The grandmother tells her in vain--"My child, it is false!" She does not listen: there is none but her father can resolve her doubts, and prove to her that it is not true; but no one knows his place of abode; she is alone--she is terrified--oh! so terrified, that she believes it.
"What a change!" she cries.

"I who, but now, was so happy--I, who was Queen of the Meadows and could command all--I, for whom every youth would have gone barefooted amongst a nest of serpents--to be contemned, avoided, the terror of the country! And Pascal--he also flies me, as if I were a pest: yet I pitied him in his wretchedness; perhaps he has no pity to bestow on me." It was not so; and she has yet some comfort in her misery: she learns that Pascal is her defender: this is a balm to her wounded spirit; and, as her only relief, she thinks of him often.

Suddenly she hears a cry; she flies to her grandmother, who has just waked from sleep: "The fire is not here; the walls do not burn! Oh God, what a mercy!" "What were you dreaming, dear grandmother--answer me--what is it ?" "Unfortunate girl! I dreamt it was night; brutal men came to our house, and set it on fire.

You cried; you exerted yourself to save me, but you could not, and we both were burnt.

Oh, I have suffered much! come to my arms! let me embrace my child!" And the aged woman strained her in her withered arms, and pressed her tenderly to her heart, her white hair mingling with the golden ringlets of Franconnette.