O! then I felt how sad was the loneliness of this woman. If a father or mother had been there they would have commanded her to stay, they would have detained her forcibly; but she was alone on earth, and to my earnest entreaties, she still answered hoarsely, “I will follow you.” We set out, but clouds now hid the moon; there was no light in the heavens, nor on the earth, and we could scarcely grope our way by the unsteady blaze of our torches. The servant led the way, and waved the torch he held from right to left, to light the ditches and streams by the road-side. Behind him Madame Meredith, the gardener, and myself watched the glare of light, seeking with anguish for some object to present itself. From time to time we raised our voices, and called on William Meredith, and after us a stifled sob murmured the name of William, as though her heart depended on the instinct of love to make her sobs heard sooner than our shouts. We reached the woods. The rain began to fall, and the drops pattering on the leaves sounded so mournful, it seemed that all was weeping around us. The thin garments Eva wore were soon saturated by the cold rain. The water streamed from the hair and forehead of the poor young woman. She bruised her feet against the stones in the road, and frequently tottered, and was on the point of falling; but she sustained herself with all the energy of despair, and continued on her way. It was a mournful sight. The red glare of our torches lit in turn each rock and leafless trunk. Occasionally, at a bend in the road, the wind would almost extinguish this light, and we stopped, lost in darkness. We had called on William Meredith till our voices became so tremulous that we ourselves shuddered at them. I did not dare to look at Eva; in truth I feared she would fall dead before me. At last, at a moment when worn out and discouraged we were moving silently along, Madame Meredith suddenly pushed us aside, and darting forward, sprung across a heap of brush. We followed—as soon as we could raise a torch to distinguish objects, alas! we saw her on her knees beside the body of William; he lay stretched on the ground motionless, his eyes glazed, and his forehead covered with the blood that trickled from a wound on the left side of his head. “Doctor?” said Eva. That single word said—does he still live? I leaned forward and felt his pulse; I put my hand on his heart, and stood silent. Eva had watched every movement I made, but when I continued silent, the awful truth flashed upon her—she spoke no word, she uttered no cry, but fell in a swoon on the dead body of her husband. “But, ladies,” said Doctor Barnabé, turning to his audience, “see, the sun is shining; you can now go out. Let us leave this mournful story.” Madame de Moncar drew near the old man; “Doctor,” said she, “pray be good enough to finish. Look at us, and you will not doubt the interest with which we have listened to you.”