hed from the soil of her heart. Death would be a benefit
to him. Perchance it might be easier to forget him if he were under the
sod. But man who does not endow with life, must not distribute death.
Man must wait till the last of his allotted days has come.

And yet only a few words would bring it to pass.

The "death-bird" has whispered the magic spell, and Death will obey the
summons.

Yet she lacks the courage to summon him at a time when the very
foundations of the earth are trembling at the voice of Heaven's thunder!

Poor woman!

It is a marvel that she also is not mad. She cannot even weep now though
her bosom heaves tumultuously--it were not good for a man to know her
secret thoughts at this moment.

"They are calling me, they are calling me," stammers the child.... "Men
without heads ... they are running after me ... the black dog is
scratching up the ground ... the hand of the dead body is sticking
out.... Poor Emma!"

The poor lady, all trembling, rose from her seat, very softly lest she
should make a noise, she gets up, she cannot blow out the night lamp on
the table, her breath is too feeble for that, she puts it out by casting
it out of the room.

Then she approaches the window in the darkness to see whether the
curtains are closely drawn, or whether anyone can look into the room
from the outside. What a flashing past there was of fiery eyes amid the
darkness of the night--Hah! What a blinding flash that was!--And then
black darkness again.--No, nobody could see her--nobody--.

Can she make up her mind?

She goes slowly back to the bed. The lad is moaning fearfully. He is
babbling dreadful words and his throat rattles painfully. "How blue...?
her mouth ... how bloody ... her forehead ... poor little Emma."

The lady bends down over the bed. The ghost of a pale little face comes
into sight now and then as the lightning flashes quiver past the
windows.

Can she make up her mind?

"Poor little Emma," wails the lad.

This last pathetic wail was too much for her. The unhappy woman crossed
herself three times and, in a dry, half-suffocated voice exclaimed:
"Don't bury me, Neddy, little Emma won't cry!"

The lad uttered a cry like the scream of a wild bird when it is shot
through the heart--then he drew a long deep sigh and was quite still.

"Oh!" cried the desperate mother, as if suddenly throwing off the
oppressive influence of some magic trance, "help, help!" and like a mad
creature she ru