Those two words, "My Mother," sank into Paul's heart. Where was he going? To kill Odette, and to bring shame and disgrace to the wife of Claude Sirvin, the other victim of the tragedy. His mother! He thought no longer of himself, only of her, and his heart seemed ready to burst with sorrow and grief for her. How she worshiped her husband! and she would die at the news of his crime! Then the same thought came to him, in his love for his mother, that had come to the mother in her love for him; the sublime and noble idea of sacrificing himself for her happiness. The son said "My mother," as the mother had said "My son." His eyes still rested on the slab before him, that seemed to say: "Tread lightly; speak softly; there is some one sleeping here." This unknown son, imploring silence for his dead mother, seemed to show Paul that his duty was silence. Mme. Sirvin must never learn the horrible truth. It was a fearful sacrifice; but had not the mother borne as much for him? She had carried him under her heart; she had brought him into the world; she had devoted her life to rear him to manhood. Now he must, in his turn, suffer for her. But could he be silent? Could he close his eyes to his own dishonor? He would take Odette far, far away; cross the ocean; hide himself in a desert--no matter where; at least, he would leave peace and contentment with his mother. God seemed to reward his noble resolution, for a heavenly calm succeeded the tempest of rage in his soul. He had been on the point of committing a crime, but God had shown him that vengeance cometh from on high. Was he the only unhappy creature on earth? Among the hundreds lying so peacefully before him, there must have been some that had suffered during their mortal life. The moonlight showed hundreds and hundreds of graves, and in each one there must be either a man, or a woman, or a child; and each one had had their share of pain and sorrow. Pain and sorrow--they meet us at the cradle, and accompany us to the grave. Paul buried his face in his hands and wept. The cypresses, the willows, the graves--all were silent. Not a murmur, not a whisper, among the branches. Nature seemed to sympathize with his unspeakable woe. As he wept his grief seemed lightened. His mother needed him, or he would have been tempted to lay down this life that had grown such a sad, sad burden. He envied the dead around him. But still it was cowardly to even wish to die. This life is a battle-field, and God pardons no deserters. Paul said to himself he would fight it out to the bitter end, would struggle and conquer. If even his contempt and hatred should not strangle his fatal love for Odette; if, in spite of all his efforts, he could not tear her from his heart, why, even then, life is not made for happiness alone, and he ought not to complain.