Lilly felt there was no need to bother about the Pathétique to-day. A dull oppression in her left breast determined her to turn to St. Joseph, to whom she had stood in tender relations since her confirmation. She had already passed many a dreamy, idle hour before his altar at St. Anne's--right front, second chapel--and secretly sent up many an abstract sigh to the dear, good face with the beautiful beard. But to-night he failed her utterly. She could get no consolation from him, and vexed and disillusioned, she dismissed him. At twelve o'clock the last vehicle passed the house. At one the pedestrians, too, grew less frequent. At half-past two a dusty wind arose, smelling of sand and threatening to blow out the lamp. Between two and three only the night watchman was heard shuffling along the narrow, echoing street. At three the early delivery wagons began to rattle, and it grew light. Between three and four Lilly prepared a boiling hot cup of coffee for her mother, and ate up all the cold supper. Long waiting and crying had made her ravenously hungry. Between four and five a band of young night revellers passed by, throwing kisses to her mother, and when their importunities forced her to withdraw from the window they serenaded her. Fine, pure voices, Lilly had to admit despite her grief; rendition good and precise, without that pedantic stop-like effect which papa so detested in the singing societies. Perhaps they were even pupils of his who did not know his residence. Scarcely were they gone when the mother was again at her post. Lilly struggled against sleep. She saw as through a veil the thin blond hair waving over her mother's forehead in the morning breeze, saw the pointed nose, red with weeping, turn now to the right, now to the left, according to the direction from which a sound came; saw the nightgown fluttering like a white flag, and the lean legs incessantly rubbing against each other in nervous agitation. Then she had to retell, perhaps for the hundredth time, the story of the hand-bag and the linen chest, but her eyes closed. And then suddenly she started up with a cry; her mother had dropped back in a swoon, and lay supine on the floor like a log of wood. CHAPTER II So Kilian Czepanek never came back. Good friends were not wanting, of course, who had for years foreseen the event. In fact, they failed to understand how he could have endured it so long--he, the man of genius, of God-given fancy, with the hall-mark of creative restlessness on his thunder-headed brow. Others called him a good-for-nothing, a dirty scoundrel, who ran after innocent girls and enticed young men to gamble. They declared Mrs. Czepanek lucky to be rid of him, and charged Lilly to erase her unworthy father from her memory.