would that I had never spoken harshly to you; but you were dearer than the life-blood, which would gladly have poured itself forth for your sake. Cling to the kind and lovely stranger with whom I leave you. Death has no truth, or she will need even your love."
The voice sank into an indistinct murmur—a gust of wind threw open the door of the hut—a stream of sunshine poured in upon the pale and set features—the Electress looked upon the face of the dead.
PART II.
"Sing me no more old songs to~night, Mimi; I am too sad already," said the Electress to a youthful singer, who, seated on a cushion at her feet, was singing an old German melody.
A few years had wrought a great change, both in Sophie and her companion. Mimi, the little orphan, had grown up into the beautiful maiden; but she was not gay, as her mistress had been at her age. Pensive, subdued, her soft voice was rarely heard, save in snatches of song, or when telling some old legend to the youthful prince, who, young as she was, had been placed in her especial care. But Mimi’s life had not been one of those which lead to the outpourings of youthful gaiety. Her childhood had been what Charles Lamb calls "not brought up, but dragged up," the hungry, toilsome, and harsh childhood of the poor. The pet and plaything of the Princess she had next known luxury and splendour; but the luxury had its companion envy—and splendour cast the shadow jealousy. Mimi soon learned to think; for suffering is the parent of thought. Her love for her kind and gentle mistress was the passion of her existence; and love takes its deepest tones when connected with sorrow. She soon saw that her mistress was not happy, that the satin robe could not control a heart that
