Nevertheless the rumor spread with amazing celerity through the whole neighborhood that the Canoness's missing husband had returned to find his death in the waves of their native river. The burgomaster called on Frau Luise to impart the sad news considerately. But the old gossips who served her had anticipated him. I was with her when she received the visit of the father of the city. "It is true," she said, "the man is my unfortunate husband. But do not expect me to feign a grief I do not feel. That he sought death I do not believe. He was supplied with money, and could indulge his sole passion, which had stifled all his nobler feelings. His death was an easy one, and now the poor restless wanderer has found repose. You can not desire me to see him again. Have him buried as quietly as possible; I will place a cross upon the grave at my own expense." Then, in a few brief words, she told the worthy magistrate about her last interview with the dead man. This occasion clearly revealed the love and esteem in which she was held by the whole community, high and low. There was not a single malicious gossip who molested her with a visit of feigned condolence, while secretly gloating over the fact that the husband of this much-lauded woman had met with a miserable end like any common vagabond. On the contrary, all who could boast of her acquaintance endeavored to show her by little attentions that the misfortune of her life, which had here reached so tragical an end, had only made them love and honor her the more. Not one of her pupils came to take a singing-lesson without bringing a bunch of violets or early lilies-of-the-valley, or a hyacinth raised at home, and no coffee-party was given from which the hostess did not send her a plate of cakes, which, it is true, only benefited the almshouse dames. Though Frau Luise gratefully appreciated these discreet tokens of affection, she was remarkably quiet and thoughtful. She wore no mourning robe, but her soul seemed muffled in a black veil. * * * * * This mood was deepened by the death of the oldest of the almshouse dames, a feeble crone of eighty-four, who had recently been unable to perform her duties as attendant. During the last three days she was unconscious, and her exhausted flame of life went out without a flicker: When I spoke to my friend, who had not left her side, of this easy death as something enviable, she shook her head gravely, and replied: "I would prefer a different one, like my dear Uncle Joachim's. I wish to be conscious when I am dying, to experience my own death, and not, so to speak, steal out of the world behind my own back."