could not turn my gaze from that motionless face which had looked upon me for so many years with absolute and unbounded tenderness, but now lay before me with rigid features, closed lips, shut eyelids, and wearing an expression of profound sorrow such as I have never seen upon any other dead face. All the melancholy thoughts which had distilled their slow poison into her heart while she lived, were revealed by that countenance now restored to its truth. Ah! that expression of infinite sadness ought to have driven me on the instant to seek for its mysterious cause in the letters which had occupied her mind to the very brink of the grave, but how could I have had strength to reason while gazing on that mournful face? I could only feel that the lips which had never spoken any words but those of tenderness to me would utter them no more, that the hands which had caressed me so tenderly would clasp mine no more for ever. The nun who was watching the dead repeated the appointed prayers, and I found myself uttering the old forms in which I no longer believed. As I recited the Paternoster and the Ave, I thought of all the prayers which she, who lay at rest before me, had put up to God for my peace and welfare. At three o'clock in the morning Julie came in to take my place, and I retired to my room, which was on the same floor as my aunt's. A box-room divided the two. I threw myself on my bed, worn out with fatigue, and nature triumphed over my grief. I fell into that heavy sleep which follows the expenditure of nerve power, and from which one awakes able to bear life again and to carry the load that seemed unendurable. When I awoke it was day, and the wintry sky was dull and dark like that of yesterday, but it also wore a threatening aspect, from the great masses of black cloud that covered it. I went to the window and looked out for a long time at the gloomy landscape closed in by the edge of the forest. I note these small details in order that I may more faithfully recall my exact impression at the time. In turning away from the window and going towards the fire which the maid had just lighted, my eye fell upon the packet of letters stolen from my aunt. Yes, stolen--'tis the word. It was in the place where I had put it last night, on the mantelshelf, with my purse, rings, and cigar-case. I took up the little parcel with a beating heart. I had only to stretch out my hand and those papers would fall into the flames and my aunt's dying wish be accomplished. I sank into an easy-chair and watched the yellow flame gaining on the logs, while I weighed the packet in my hand. I thought there must be a good many letters in it. I suffered from the physical uneasiness of indecision. I am not trying to justify this second failure of my loyalty to my dear aunt, I am trying to understand it.