have fallen asleep in the ruins of St. Jago, and am dreaming of her. That is Eugenia, or I am not Frank. It is her, or it is her ghost." Still I had not that moral certainty of the identity, as to enable me to go at once to her, and address her. Indeed, had I been certain, all things considered, the situation we were in would have rendered such a step highly improper.
"If that be Eugenia," thought I, again, "she has improved both in manner and person. She has a becoming embonpoint, and an air de bon societé which, when we parted, she had not."
The more intensely I gazed, the more -convinced was I that I was right; the immovable devotion of my eyes attracted the attention of a French officer, who sat near me.
"Cest une jolie femme, west-ce pas, monsieur?"
"Vraiment," said I. "Do you know her name?"
"Elle's'appelle Madame de Rosenberg."
