healing her
malady--epilepsy. There are no words to express how grateful I am that
she did not meet her fate in the hands of strangers, but in the loving
shelter of her own home.

"MISS JEAN IS DEAD!"

It is true. Jean is dead.

A month ago I was writing bubbling and hilarious articles for magazines
yet to appear, and now I am writing--this.

CHRISTMAS DAY. NOON.--Last night I went to Jean's room at intervals, and
turned back the sheet and looked at the peaceful face, and kissed the
cold brow, and remembered that heartbreaking night in Florence so long
ago, in that cavernous and silent vast villa, when I crept downstairs so
many times, and turned back a sheet and looked at a face just like this
one--Jean's mother's face--and kissed a brow that was just like this
one. And last night I saw again what I had seen then--that strange and
lovely miracle--the sweet, soft contours of early maidenhood restored
by the gracious hand of death! When Jean's mother lay dead, all trace of
care, and trouble, and suffering, and the corroding years had vanished
out of the face, and I was looking again upon it as I had known and
worshipped it in its young bloom and beauty a whole generation before.

About three in the morning, while wandering about the house in the deep
silences, as one does in times like these, when there is a dumb sense
that something has been lost that will never be found again, yet must
be sought, if only for the employment the useless seeking gives, I came
upon Jean's dog in the hall downstairs, and noted that he did not
spring to greet me, according to his hospitable habit, but came slow and
sorrowfully; also I remembered that he had not visited Jean's apartment
since the tragedy. Poor fellow, did he know? I think so. Always when
Jean was abroad in the open he was with her; always when she was in the
house he was with her, in the night as well as in the day. Her parlor
was his bedroom. Whenever I happened upon him on the ground floor he
always followed me about, and when I went upstairs he went too--in a
tumultuous gallop. But now it was different: after patting him a little
I went to the library--he remained behind; when I went upstairs he did
not follow me, save with his wistful eyes. He has wonderful eyes--big,
and kind, and eloquent. He can talk with them. He is a beautiful
creature, and is of the breed of the New York police-dogs. I do not like
dogs, because they bark when there is no occasion for it; but I