his granddaughter. It was evident, at a glance, that he was on his
death bed.

"Adelaide," said he, "forgive me, before I die, that I may depart in
peace."

"Forgive you, dear grandfather! am I not deeply indebted to you?"

"I should have reposed more confidence in you; I should have spoken to
you about your parents."

"My father?" asked Adelaide.

"Was a brave and good man. But of your mother--your good mother--she
was--"

Here a spasm interrupted his utterance, and he lay back on his pillow
gasping for breath. After a brief space he seemed to revive again, and
made strong efforts to express himself, but his breath failed him. He
motioned to Adelaide to fetch him writing materials, and while she
held a sheet of paper on a book before him, he essayed with feeble
fingers to trace a sentence with a pen. But the rapid approach of
death foiled all his endeavors to communicate a secret that evidently
lay close to his heart; and while the young girl bent over him in an
agony of grief, he gently sighed away his last. The baron and baroness
found their _protégée_, an hour afterwards, still sorrowing by the
bedside of her early friend and protector. With gentle violence they
removed her from the chamber of death, and took her home to the
castle, where they gave directions to the proper persons to take
charge of the old soldier's remains, and inter them with that decent