within his own walls; and now he lay shrivelled up in his coffin,
under a monument by means of which an unknown cemetery became quite
famous.

Instructions had been given that my mother was to be shown up into Mrs.
Teidelmann's boudoir. She was lying on a sofa near the fire when we
entered, asleep, dressed in a loose lace robe that fell away, showing
her thin but snow-white arms, her rich dark hair falling loose about
her. In sleep she looked less beautiful: harder and with a suggestion of
coarseness about the face, of which at other times it showed no trace.
My mother said she would wait, perhaps Mrs. Teidelmann would awake; and
the servant, closing the door softly, left us alone with her.

An old French clock standing on the mantelpiece, a heart supported by
Cupids, ticked with a muffled, soothing sound. My mother, choosing a
chair by the window, sat with her eyes fixed on the sleeping woman's
face, and it seemed to me--though this may have been but my fancy born
of after-thought--that a faint smile relaxed for a moment the sleeping
woman's pained, pressed lips. Neither I nor my mother spoke, the only
sound in the room being the hushed ticking of the great gilt clock.
Until the other woman after a few slight movements of unrest began to
talk in her sleep.

Only confused murmurs escaped her at first, and then I heard her whisper
my father's name. Very low--hardly more than breathed--were the words,
but upon the silence each syllable struck clear and distinct: "Ah no, we
must not. Luke, my darling."

My mother rose swiftly from her chair, but she spoke in quite
matter-of-fact tones.

"Go, Paul," she said, "wait for me downstairs;" and noiselessly opening
the door, she pushed me gently out, and closed it again behind me.

It was half an hour or more before she came down, and at once we left
the house, letting ourselves out. All the way home my mother never once
spoke, but walked as one in a dream with eyes that saw not. With her
hand upon the lock of our gate she came back to life.

"You must say nothing, Paul, do you understand?" she said. "When people
are delirious they use strange words that have no meaning. Do you
understand, Paul; you must never breathe a word--never."

I promised, and we entered the house; and from that day my mother's
whole manner changed. Not another angry word ever again escaped her
lips, never an angry flash lighted up again her eyes. Mrs. Teidelmann
remained away three months. My fath