he never went out, except across the street to an old female friend;
and in later years she did not even take this walk, for the old friend
was dead. In her solitude my old maid was always busy at the window,
which was adorned in summer with pretty flowers, and in winter with
cress, grown upon felt. During the last months I saw her no more at
the window, but she was still alive. I knew that, for I had not yet
seen her begin the 'long journey,' of which she often spoke with her
friend. 'Yes, yes,' she was in the habit of saying, 'when I come to
die, I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole life
long. Our family vault is six miles from here. I shall be carried
there, and shall sleep there among my family and relatives.' Last
night a van stopped at the house. A coffin was carried out, and then I
knew that she was dead. They placed straw round the coffin, and the
van drove away. There slept the quiet old lady, who had not gone out
of her house once for the last year. The van rolled out through the
town-gate as briskly as if it were going for a pleasant excursion. On
the high-road the pace was quicker yet. The coachman looked nervously
round every now and then--I fancy he half expected to see her sitting
on the coffin, in her yellow satin wrapper. And because he was
startled, he foolishly lashed his horses, while he held the reins so
tightly that the poor beasts were in a foam: they were young and
fiery. A hare jumped across the road and startled them, and they
fairly ran away. The old sober maiden, who had for years and years
moved quietly round and round in a dull circle, was now, in death,
rattled over stock and stone on the public highway. The coffin in its
covering of straw tumbled out of the van, and was left on the
high-road, while horses, coachman, and carriage flew past in wild
career. The lark rose up carolling from the field, twittering her
morning lay over the coffin, and presently perched upon it, picking
with her beak at the straw covering, as though she would tear it up.
The lark rose up again, singing gaily, and I withdrew behind the red
morning clouds."

ELEVENTH EVENING.

"I will give you a picture of Pompeii," said the Moon. "I was in the
suburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair
monuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths, their
temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of Lais.
Now, the stillness of death reigned around. Germa