favorite science.

Annette had procured various fugitive articles of Richard's that had
been published in scientific journals, and during the winter had read
all of his books, as well as an essay of his on the "Origin of
Language."

She once said: "I do not consider it vanity when a writer asks me,
'Have you read such and such work of mine?' How can he believe that one
faithfully listens to his words if one does not care to become
acquainted with the best that he has done--the fruit of the deepest
labors of his calmer hours?

"I read the Professor's writings, and find much in them that I cannot
understand; but he wrote them, and I read them for that reason, if for
no other. And then again, I often chance on passages which are quite
clear to me."

My wife looked at me with a significant glance, and for the first time
it occurred to me that it might be possible that Richard was in love
with Annette, and for that reason held himself aloof from her.

It was towards the end of February. There was grief among our nearest
friends. Joseph's father died. On the day that he was buried, Annette
received a letter informing her of the illness of her mother-in-law in
Paris.

I, of course, advised her to depart at once; and thus we were again
left to ourselves. We all felt the void that Annette's departure had
made, but soon after new and heavy troubles fell upon us.

CHAPTER XII.

Days have passed in which I did not once take my pen in hand; I could
not. Must I indeed write of this? What forces me to do so?

"Above all things, leave nothing unfinished that you have once begun,"
was a maxim of hers; and I must therefore tell of her death. When the
fogs of autumn and the frosts of winter scatter the foliage of the
trees, a branch may here and there be seen to which a few leaves are
still clinging. Why should those alone have remained?

My memory has remained true to me; but of that grief which seemed to
divide my life I have but little recollection. I constantly thought of
the saying of Carl's mother, "You are a good child: you cannot be so
cruel as to die before me." From the garret, I looked on while they
were filling up her grave. The spade shone in the sunshine. No one knew
that I was looking on. Shall I again renew the feelings that then
passed through my soul? Let it be so.

My wife was ill. She uttered no complaint, but she was feeble, and took
no interest in what was going on