But the next day of storm she is fallen. She cannot talk even; she presses your hand. You hurry away from business before your time. What matter for clients—who is to reap the rewards? What matter for fame—whose eye will it brighten? What matter for riches—whose is the inheritance? You find her propped with pillows; she is looking over a little picture-book be-thumbed by the dear boy she has lost. She hides it in her chair; she has pity on you. —Another day of revival, when the spring sun shines, and flowers open out of doors; she leans on your arm, and strolls into the garden where the first birds are singing. Listen to them with her—what memories are in bird-songs! You need not shudder at her tears—they are tears of thanksgiving. Press the hand that lies light upon your arm, and you, too, thank God, while yet you may! * * * * * You are early home—mid-afternoon. Your step is not light; it is heavy, terrible. They have sent for you. She is lying down; her eyes half closed; her breathing long and interrupted. She hears you; her eye opens; you put your hand in hers; yours trembles—hers does not. Her lips move; it is your name. [Illustration] “Be strong,” she says, “God will help you!” She presses harder your hand: “Adieu!” A long breath—another; you are alone again. No tears now; poor man! You cannot find them! * * * * * —Again home early. There is a smell of varnish in your house. A coffin is there; they have clothed the body in decent grave clothes, and the undertaker is screwing down the lid, slipping round on tip-toe. Does he fear to waken her? He asks you a simple question about the inscription upon the plate, rubbing it with his coat cuff. You look him straight in the eye; you motion to the door; you dare not speak. He takes up his hat and glides out stealthful as a cat. The man has done his work well for all. It is a nice coffin—a very nice coffin! Pass your hand over it—how smooth! Some sprigs of mignonette are lying carelessly in a little gilt-edged saucer. She loved mignonette. It is a good stanch table the coffin rests on; it is your table; you are a housekeeper—a man of family! Ay, of family! keep down outcry, or the nurse will be in. Look over at the pinched features; is this all that is left of her? And where is your heart now? No, don’t thrust your nails into your hands, nor mangle your lip, nor grate your teeth together. If you could only weep! —Another day. The coffin is gone out. The stupid mourners have wept—what idle tears! She with your crushed heart, has gone out! Will you have pleasant evenings at your home now? Go into your parlor that your prim housekeeper has made comfortable with clean hearth and blaze of sticks.