spicion, an intuition,
rare with her, which gave her a sort of obscure fear of what her
husband might be about to do, but he succeeded in keeping her away
until he had finished. Ordinarily not a line of his was spared to his
family; it was a pleasure to his simple-hearted, affectionate vanity,
and a duty towards their love also, which none of them would have
neglected. This time, however, he did neglect it, for reasons which he
would not admit to himself, for though he was far from imagining the
consequences of his act, he was afraid of their objections, he did
not feel sure enough to expose himself to them, and so preferred to
confront them with the accomplished fact.

His first word was a cry of self-accusation:

"_FORGIVE US, YE DEAD_!"

This public confession began with an inscription; a musical phrase of
David's lament over the body of his son Absalom:

"_Oh! Absalom my son, my son_!"

_I had a son whom I loved, and sent to his death. You Fathers of
mourning Europe, millions of fathers, widowed of your sons, enemies or
friends, I do not speak for myself only, but for you who are stained
with their blood even as I am. You all speak by the voice of one of
you,--my unhappy voice full of sorrow and repentance_.

_My son died, for yours, by yours.--How can I tell?--like yours. I
laid the blame on the enemy, and on the war, as you must also have
done, but I see now that the chief criminal, the one whom I accuse, is
myself. Yes, I am guilty; and that means you, and all of us. You must
listen while I tell you what you know well enough, but do not want to
hear_.

_My son was twenty years old when he fell in this war. Twenty years I
had loved him, protected him from hunger, cold, and sickness; saved
him from darkness of mind, ignorance, error, and all the pitfalls that
lie in the shadows of life. But what did I do to defend him against
this scourge which was coming upon us_?

_I was never one of those who compounded with the passions of jealous
nationalities. I loved men, and their future brotherhood was a joy to
me. Why then did I do nothing against the impending danger, against
the fever that brooded within us, against the false peace which made
ready to kill with a smile on its lips_?

_I was perhaps afraid to displease others, afraid of enmities; it is
true I cared too much to love, above all to be loved. I feared to lose
the good-will of those around me, however feeble and insipid such a
feeling may be. It