, there was it passing again.
'Twas the eternal and endless renewal, with present joys and future
tears. Aunt Dide could only see the tears, and a sudden presentiment
showed her the two children bleeding, with stricken hearts. Overwhelmed
by the recollection of her life's sorrow, which this spot had just
awakened within her, she grieved for her dear Silvere. She alone was
guilty; if she had not formerly had that door made Silvere would not
now be at a girl's feet in that lonely nook, intoxicating himself with a
bliss which prompts and angers the jealousy of death.

After a brief pause, she went up to the young man, and, without a
word, took him by the hand. She might, perhaps, have left them there,
chattering under the wall, had she not felt that she herself was, to
some extent, an accomplice in this fatal love. As she came back with
Silvere, she turned on hearing the light footfall of Miette, who, having
quickly taken up her pitcher, was hastening across the stubble. She was
running wildly, glad at having escaped so easily. And aunt Dide smiled
involuntarily as she watched her bound over the ground like a runaway
goat.

"She is very young," she murmured, "she has plenty of time."

She meant, no doubt, that Miette had plenty of time before her to suffer
and weep. Then, turning her eyes upon Silvere, who with a glance of
ecstasy had followed the child as she ran off in the bright sunshine,
she simply added: "Take care, my boy; this sort of thing sometimes kills
one."

These were the only words she spoke with reference to the incident which
had awakened all the sorrows that lay slumbering in the depths of her
being. Silence had become a real religion with her. When Silvere came
in, she double-locked the door, and threw the key down the well. In
this wise she felt certain that the door would no longer make her an
accomplice. She examined it for a moment, glad at seeing it reassume its
usual gloomy, barrier-like aspect. The tomb was closed once more; the
white gap was for ever boarded up with that damp-stained mossy timber
over which the snails had shed silvery tears.

In the evening, aunt Dide had another of those nervous attacks which
came upon her at intervals. At these times she would often talk aloud
and ramble incoherently, as though she was suffering from nightmare.
That evening, while Silvere held her down on her bed, he heard her
stammer in a panting voice such words as "custom-house officer," "fire,"
and "mu