ommunicated itself to every part of my body.

Suddenly I fancied I heard a voice! A voice at once soft and plaintive; a
voice within the chapel, pronouncing the name of "Albert!"

I was startled.

"Albert!"

But one person in all the world addressed me by that name!

Slowly I directed my weeping eyes around the chapel, which, though small,
was not completely lighted by the feeble rays of the candle, leaving the
nooks and angles in darkness, and my look remained fixed on the
blood-soaked sack near the altar with its hideous contents.

At this moment the same voice repeated the same name, only it sounded
fainter and more plaintive.

"Albert!"

I bolted out of my chair, frozen with horror.

The voice seemed to proceed from the sack!

I touched myself to make sure that I was awake; then I walked toward the
sack with my arms extended before me, but stark and staring with horror. I
thrust my hand into it. Then it seemed to me as if two lips, still warm,
pressed a kiss upon my fingers!

I had reached that stage of boundless terror where the excess of fear
turns into the audacity of despair. I seized the head and collapsing in my
chair, placed it in front of me.

Then I gave vent to a fearful scream. This head, with its lips still warm,
with the eyes half closed, was the head of Solange!

I thought I should go mad.

Three times I called:

"Solange! Solange! Solange!"

At the third time she opened her eyes and looked at me. Tears trickled
down her cheeks; then a moist glow darted from her eyes, as if the soul
were passing, and the eyes closed, never to open again.

I sprang to my feet a raving maniac, I wanted to fly; I knocked against
the table; it fell. The candle was extinguished; the head rolled upon the
floor, and I fell prostrate, as if a terrible fever had stricken me
down--an icy-shudder convulsed me, and, with a deep sigh, I swooned.

The following morning at six the grave-diggers found me, cold as the
flagstones on which I lay.

Solange, betrayed by her father's letter, had been arrested the same day,
condemned, and executed.

The head that had called me, the eyes that had looked at me, were the
head, the eyes, of Solange!

THE BIRDS IN THE LETTER-BOX

BY RENE BAZIN

Nothing can describe the peace that surrounded the country parsonage. The
parish was small, moderately honest, prosperous, and was used to the old
priest, who had ruled it for thirty years. The town ended at the
parsona