And I saw on her courageous face that night, a as shows on high mountains after sunset, the divine rejection of Raymonde’s soul. * * * I have just paid another visit to the Sleeping Woods. First I rang at the lodge, which was closed. As no one answered, I took the road toward the chateau, whose open windows I could see through the oaks. Mme. Mairieux received me with her customary affability. “Yes” she explained, “we have at last come to live here. It is surely more suitable and consistent with our position. Besides, shouldn’t Dilette get used to her fortune?” I hastened to express approval. No doubt she mourned the loss of her son-in-law, but it was a sort of compensation, too, to be living in the chateau. “And where are M. Mairieux and Dilette?” I enquired. “I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “They have gone out together, as they do every afternoon. Perhaps you will find them at the edge of the wood, or perhaps they have gone as far as the Green Fountain.” “I’ll go and look for them.” “And come back for dinner.” I thanked her, and set out on my search. But on the way I changed my mind about following them into the wood, and took the path that led to the cemetery. I found my gay little field of the dead with its air of a neglected garden. M. Mairieux and Dilette had preceded me, and at sight of them I felt again the emotion of so much youth and love lost to them both. The grandfather, assisted by his granddaughter, whom the work amused, was carefully replacing the twisted ivy over a new inscription. And I read on the stone, beside that other name: RAYMOND CERNAT DEAD AT THE AGE OF THIRTY-FIVE We returned to the chateau together. I had taken Dilette’s hand, and was admiring the calmness of M. Mairieux, whom I had scarcely seen at Cernay’s funeral. He had without doubt grown old, but he resisted age, resolved to accept without complaint the burden of his daily life, and to keep on for the sake of the orphan daughter. “I have a package for you,” he said to me, as we entered the house. An envelope, left by his son-in-law, bore my name with a note. It contained the two notebooks. I hesitated a long time before publishing them, but the conquest of the air has claimed so many victims now, that no one will recognise Raymond Cernay. I have suppressed or modified what might have designated him too clearly. He did give me that melancholy record for myself alone. If he could not make clear his intentions, they nevertheless appear in this legacy. If I have overstepped them, I do not believe that I have hurt his memory. The admission of a mistake is so noble and so rare a thing, in the life of a human being, that, perhaps Raymonde’s radiancy may light up other hearts now unmindful, proud or frivolous.