although she was nearly fifteen years old, she was never weary and never thought that she might live otherwise and might see more of the world.
There was a little house at the end of the park without windows and with but one door, which was always locked. Rosalie's father entered this house every day and always carried the key about his person. Rosalie thought it was only a little hut in which the garden-tools were kept. She never thought of speaking about it but one day, when she was seeking a watering-pot for her flowers, she said to him:—
"Father, please give me the key of the little house in the garden."
"What do you want with this key, Rosalie?"
"I want a watering-pot and I think I could find one in that little house."
"No, Rosalie, there is no watering-pot there."
Prudent's voice trembled so in pronouncing these words that Rosalie looked up with surprise, and saw that his face was pale and his forehead bathed in perspiration.
"What is the matter, father?" said she, alarmed.
"Nothing, daughter, nothing."
"It was my asking for the key which agitated you so violently, father. What does this little house contain which frightens you so much?"
"Rosalie, Rosalie! you do not know what you are say-
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