Now that the great dread of the last few days was taken from her, that sweet languor the significance of which she could not guess came over her again. Her neighbour had already come home. She opened her window and closed it, only to open it again. From time to time she sang a few brief tones, almost like the strange bird in the grove. Then her door rattled and Angeline's voice cried out with jubilant laughter: "_Une lettre, Madame, une lettre_!" "_Une lettre--de qui?_" "_De lui!_" Then a silence fell, a long silence. Who was this "he?" Surely some one at home. It was the hour of the mail delivery. But the voice of the maid soon brought enlightenment. She had managed the affair cleverly. She had met him in the hall and saluted him so that he had found the courage to address her. And just now he had pressed the envelope, together with a twenty-franc piece, into her hand. He asserted that he had an important communication to make to her mistress, but had never found an opportunity to address himself to her in person. "_Tais-toi donc--on nous entend_!" And from now on nothing was to be heard but whispering and giggling. Mary felt now a wave of hotness, started from her nape and overflowing her face. Listening and with beating heart, she sat there. What in all the world could he have written? For that it was he, she could no longer doubt. Perhaps he had declared his love and begged for the gift of her hand. A dull feeling of pain, the cause of which was dark to her, oppressed her heart. And then she smiled--a smile of renouncement, although there was surely nothing here for her to renounce! And anyhow--the thing was impossible. For she, to whom such an offer is made does not chat with a servant girl. Such an one flees into some lonely place, kneels down, and prays to God for enlightenment and grace in face of so important a step. But indeed she did send the girl away, for the latter's slippers could he heard trailing along the hall. Then was heard gentle, intoxicated laughter, full of restrained jubilation and arch triumph: "_O comme je suis heureuse! Comme je suis heureuse!"_ Mary felt her eyes grow moist. She felt glad and poignantly sad at the same time. She would have liked to kiss and bless the other woman, for now it was clear that he had come to claim her as his bride. "If she doesn't pray, I will pray for her," she thought, and folded her hands. Then a voice sounded behind her, hollow as the roll of falling earth; rasping as coffin cords: "Read me a song of death, Mary." A shudder came over her. She jumped up. And she who had hitherto taken up the hymn-book at his command without hesitation or complaint, fell down beside his bed and grasped his emaciated arm: "Have pity--I can't! I can't!"