signed the “best room,” whose linen-spread bed vied in whiteness with the winter’s snow. The sisters had taken care to fill vases with the choicest flowers the garden could boast, and the room was fragrant with the damask rose, the sweetbrier and mignonette.

Through his dreams all night, floated visions of two most lovely, joyous beings. Occasionally a dark, nut-brown face, of exquisite beauty, bent lowly over him; while, with the musical voices of the sisters—melting in sweet cadences with his sleep—mingled the lowest of soft Indian accents, whispering wild lullabies to his spirit.