On the bed a woman--the ghastly skeleton of a woman--lay dying.
The entrance of La Sylphine aroused the woman from the stupor into which she had fallen.

She opened her spectral eyes and looked eagerly around.
"My Sunbeam! is it thou ?" "It is I, mother--at last.

I could come no sooner.

The ballet was very long to-night." "And my Sunbeam was bravoed, and encored, and crowned with flowers, was she not ?" "Yes, mother; but never mind that.

How are you tonight ?" "Dying, my own." The _danseuse_ fell on her knees with a shrill, sharp cry.
"No, mother--no, no! Not dying! Very ill, very weak, very low, but not dying.