y
child, that any woman, had ever loved more absolutely, more
passionately, than I had loved the man who lay there dead before me. But
I cannot talk about what I felt in those moments; all that concerns what
I write is the external.

The--coffin was in the middle of the room, where the table ordinarily
stood--where my chair had been that night, when he told me his story.
Surely if I sinned, in thought, in word, _that_ night, I paid its full
atonement, _this_. Candles stood on a small table at the head of where
he lay, and many flowers were about the room. The smell of
verbena-leaves filled the air: a branch of them was in a vase that some
one had put beside his coffin. The fresh, cool night-air came in from
the large window, open at the top.

His face was, as Richard said, much as in life, only quieter. I do not
know what length of time Richard left me there, but at last, I was
recalled to the present, by his hand upon my shoulder, and his voice in
a whisper, "Come with me now, Pauline."

I rose to my feet, hardly understanding what he said, but resisted when
I did understand him.

"Come with me," he said, gently, "You shall come back again and say
good-bye. Only come out into the hall and stay awhile with me; it is not
good for you to be here so long."

He took my hand and led me out, shutting the door noiselessly. He took
me across the hall, and into the parlor, where there was no light,
except what came in from the hall. There was a sofa opposite the door,
and to that he led me, standing himself before me, with his perplexed
and careworn face. I was very silent for some time: all that awful time
in the library, I had never made a sound: but suddenly, some thought
came that reached the source of my tears, and I burst into a passion of
weeping. I am not sure what it was: I think, perhaps, the sight of the
piano, and the recollection of that magnificent voice that would never
be heard again, Whatever it was, I bless it, for I think it saved my
brain. I threw myself down upon the sofa, and clung to Richard's hand,
and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

Poor fellow! my tears seemed to shake him terribly. Once he turned away,
and drew his hand across his brow, as if it were a little more than he
could bear. But some men, like many women, are born to sacrifice.

He tried to comfort and soothe me with broken words. But what was there
to say?

"Oh, Richard," I cried, "What does it all mean? why am I so punished?
was