Both hinted at having entertained similar suspicions, but both had come to the conclusion that she could not be alive, or she would have written.
Rosa, meanwhile, left alone in the little parlor, where she had listened so anxiously for the whistling of _Ca ira_, was scarcely conscious of any other sensation than the luxury of repose, after extreme fatigue of body and mind.

There was, indeed, something pleasant in the familiar surroundings.

The parrot swung in the same gilded ring in her cage.

Madame's table, with its basket of chenilles, stood in the same place, and by it was her enamelled snuffbox.

Rosa recognized a few articles that had been purchased at the auction of her father's furniture;--his arm-chair, and the astral lamp by which he used to sit to read his newspaper; a sewing-chair that was her mother's; and one of Flora's embroidered slippers, hung up for a watch-case.