the heart as I reached her grave. Poor dear, she
was so dainty, so loving and so white and fresh--and now--if one should
open the grave--

"Leaning over the iron grating, I told her of my sorrow in a low tone,
which she doubtless did not hear, and was moving away when I saw a woman
in black, in deep mourning, kneeling on the next grave. Her crape veil
was turned back, uncovering a pretty fair head, the hair in Madonna
bands looking like rays of dawn beneath her sombre headdress. I stayed.

"Surely she must be in profound grief. She had covered her face with her
hands and, standing there in meditation, rigid as a statue, given up to
her grief, telling the sad rosary of her remembrances within the shadow
of her concealed and closed eyes, she herself seemed like a dead person
mourning another who was dead. All at once a little motion of her back,
like a flutter of wind through a willow, led me to suppose that she was
going to cry. She wept softly at first, then louder, with quick motions
of her neck and shoulders. Suddenly she uncovered her eyes. They were
full of tears and charming, the eyes of a bewildered woman, with which
she glanced about her as if awaking from a nightmare. She looked at me,
seemed abashed and hid her face completely in her hands. Then she sobbed
convulsively, and her head slowly bent down toward the marble. She
leaned her forehead on it, and her veil spreading around her, covered
the white corners of the beloved tomb, like a fresh token of mourning. I
heard her sigh, then she sank down with her cheek on the marble slab and
remained motionless, unconscious.

"I darted toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids, while I
read this simple epitaph: 'Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain of
Marine Infantry, killed by the enemy at Tonquin. Pray for him.'

"He had died some months before. I was affected to tears and redoubled
my attentions. They were successful. She regained consciousness. I
appeared very much moved. I am not bad looking, I am not forty. I saw
by her first glance that she would be polite and grateful. She was, and
amid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well
as her gasping breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquin
when they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, and
being an orphan, she had only the usual dowry.

"I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet.
Then I said:

"'Do not stay h