“Good-bye，mydearchildren。Ikissyou，mygirl，youtoo，myson-in-law，andthelittleoneonbothcheeks。Iam，withbestcompliments，yourlovingfather。
“TheodoreRouault。“
Sheheldthecoarsepaperinherfingersforsomeminutes。Thespellingmistakeswereinterwovenonewiththeother，andEmmafollowedthekindlythoughtthatcackledrightthroughitlikeahenhalfhiddeninthehedgeofthorns。Thewritinghadbeendriedwithashesfromthehearth，foralittlegreypowderslippedfromtheletterontoherdress，andshealmostthoughtshesawherfatherbendingoverthehearthtotakeupthetongs。
Howlongsinceshehadbeenwithhim，sittingonthefootstoolinthechimney-corner，wheresheusedtoburntheendofabitofwoodinthegreatflameofthesea-sedges!Sherememberedthesummereveningsallfullofsunshine。Thecoltsneighedwhenanyonepassedby，andgalloped，galloped。Underherwindowtherewasabeehive，andsometimesthebeeswheelingroundinthelightstruckagainstherwindowlikereboundingballsofgold。Whathappinesstherehadbeenatthattime，whatfreedom，whathope!
Whatanabundanceofillusions!Nothingwasleftofthemnow。Shehadgotridofthemallinhersoul’slife，inallhersuccessiveconditionsoflifemaidenhood，hermarriage，andherlove——thusconstantlylosingthemallherlifethrough，likeatravellerwholeavessomethingofhiswealthateveryinnalonghisroad。