se to attend to the funeral. They set down the coffin in front
of the house, and not far from the spring. They told me that my
grandson, the vicar, delivered an impressive address in the name of the
family. I heard nothing but the rushing of the water.

How I reached her grave, or who led me, I know not.

This alone do I know. I saw how Martella kissed the handful of earth
that she threw into the empty grave, and when I returned homeward, the
waters were still roaring in our fountain. It roars and roars.

I felt borne down as if by a load of lead. Tears were not vouchsafed
me. I could not realize that my hands could move, my eyes see--in fact
that I was still alive.

When I looked out again over the valley and towards the hills, it
suddenly seemed as if my eyes had become covered with a film, and then
all--the forest, the meadows, and the houses seemed of a blood-red
color, as if steeped in the dark glow of evening.

I closed my eyes for a long while, and when I opened them again, I saw
that the meadows and the woods were green, and everything had its
natural color.

The water flows over the weir and bubbles and rushes and sparkles
to-day, just as it did yesterday, and as it will tomorrow. How can it
be possible that all continues to live on, and she not here. Do not
tell me that nature can comfort us against real grief. Against a loss
for aye she availeth nothing.

If, in your closet, you have grieved because of insult and falsehood
and meanness, do but go out into the fields or woods. While gazing upon
the bright and kindly face of nature, or inhaling the sweet perfume of
the trees and flowers, you will soon learn to forget such troubles. How
weak is all the world's wickedness, when compared with such undying
grandeur? That which is best on earth is still yours, if these things
but preserve their sway over you. But, if your wife has been torn away
from you, neither tree, nor stream, nor the blue heavens, nor the
flowers, nor the singing birds will help you. All nature lives a life
of its own, and unto itself, and of what avail is it all, when she no
longer shares it with me?

The first thing that recalled me to myself, was hearing the old spinner
say to Carl, "Why am I yet here? She was so good and so useful, and I
am nothing but a burden to you and to the world. Why must I stay
behind? I would so gladly have gone in her stead."

The poor people were gathered all about the house, and one old woman
cried out