"Listen. Do you remember 'Parva sed Apta, le petit pavilion,' as you
used to call it? That is still my home when I am here. It shall be
yours, if you like, when the time comes. You will find much to interest
you there. Well, to-morrow early, in your cell, you will receive from me
an envelope with a slip of paper in it, containing some violets, and the
words 'Parva sed Apta--a bientot' written in violet ink. Will that
convince you?"

"Oh yes, yes!"

"Well, then, give me your hands, dearest and best--both hands! I shall
soon be here again, by this apple-tree; I shall count the hours.
Good-bye!" and she was gone, and I woke.

I woke to the gaslit darkness of my cell. It was just before dawn. One
of the warders asked me civilly if I wanted anything, and gave me a
drink of water.

I thanked him quietly, and recalled what had just happened to me, with a
wonder, an ecstasy, for which I can find no words.

No, it had _not_ been a _dream_--of that I felt quite sure--not in any
one single respect; there had been nothing of the dream about it except
its transcendent, ineffable enchantment.

Every inflexion of that beloved voice, with its scarcely perceptible
foreign accent that I had never noticed before; every animated gesture,
with its subtle reminiscence of both her father and her mother; her
black dress trimmed with gray; her black and gray hat; the scent of
sandal-wood about her--all were more distinctly and vividly impressed