roval and countenance.

One bright hope upheld Sophy; Herr Krauss now talked of returning
home--that is, to Germany.

"Business is booming, my dear old lady; I shall close down, and we will
all depart. You have been in Burma too long, but in six months we
shall be aboard the mail boat and watch the gold Pagoda gradually
sinking out of sight. I shall take a handsome place in the
neighbourhood of Frankfort, and entertain all my good friends. Then we
will make music, and eat, drink, and be merry."

His talk was invariably in this hopeful strain; he never exhibited the
least anxiety with regard to his wife's illness; it had become her
normal condition, and he spoke of it as "that confounded neuralgia" and
cursed the Burmese climate.

Sophy listened and marvelled, and yet she herself had been equally
dense. Neuralgia covers various infirmities, just as the cloak of
charity covers a multitude of sins. She had become excessively
sensitive and suspicious, a sort of domestic detective--a post that was
by no means to her taste. She had thought long and earnestly over the
situation, and from her reflections emerged the solid word "Duty." It
was her duty to fight for her aunt, to contend against the demon
drug--and fight she did. Oh, if she could only maintain the struggle
until her charge was en route home, what a victory!

Mrs. Krauss never alluded to her illness--a remarkable contrast to many
invalids; but one afternoon, as Sophy sat beside her in the dimly-lit
lounge, she suddenly broke an unusually long silence:

"Life is very difficult, Sophy, my dear; death is easy, and I shall
soon know all about it."

"Oh, Aunt Flo, why do you say this?"

"Because, before long, I shall die. Karl is full of great plans and
talks of our wonderful future. I see no future for myself in Europe; I
shall remain behind when you and he go down the Irrawaddy--but I am not
afraid. On the contrary, I look forward."

"As for death, I hope you are mistaken, Aunt Flora, but I confess that
yours is a most enviable frame of mind."

"It is, dear, I suppose, from living so long in the East, I have
imbibed some of the people's ideas. In all the world these Burmans
cannot be matched for their radiant cheerfulness--they make the best of
the present, and, as they say, 'merely die to live again.' There is
not one of them who does not believe in and speak of his past life, and
look forward to a future existence; this is why they wear such