dressed, gay, but shivering with the cold, which blew from the river
through the chink which lighted the stair.

"'These are four of my daughters. I have eight children. François, the
keeper, has had four, and he has had the good fortune to get them all
married. François is a kind father.'

"'So,' said I, 'twelve children then have been born in the Morgue.
Dreams of joy, and conjugal endearments, and parental delights, have
been experienced in this chamber of death. Marriage with its orange
flowers, baptism with its black robed sponsors, the communion, and the
embroidered veil, love, religion, virtue, have had their home here as
elsewhere. God has sown the seeds of happiness every where.'

"'Papa, we are going to a distribution of prizes. My sisters are sure
to get a prize. Don't weary, we will be back in good time.'

"'Go, my children,'--and all four embraced him.

"I thought of the body of the little Norman in the dreary room
beneath, and of the mother who even now, perhaps, was anxiously
looking for her from the window.

"'This is the apartment of François'. François did the honours with
the activity of a man who is not ashamed of his establishment. His
room is comfortably furnished; two modern pendules mounted on
bronze, a wardrobe with a Medusa's head, a high bed, and a handsome
rose-coloured curtain. If the room was not overburdened with
furniture, if there was not much of luxury, yet, to those not early
accustomed to superfluities, it might even seem gay. It represented