life."

Poor Mr. Horace spoke with the unreason of a superstitious bigot.

"I have often thought, since, in large assemblies, particularly in
weddings, Josephine, of what was going on in the women's hearts there,
and I have felt sorry for them; and when I think of God's knowing what
is in their hearts, I have felt sorry for the men. And I often think
now, Josephine,--think oftener and oftener of it,--that if the
resurrection trumpet of our childhood should sound some day, no matter
when, out there, over the old St. Louis cemetery, and we should all
have to rise from our long rest of oblivion, what would be the first
thing we should do? And though there were a God and a heaven awaiting
us,--by that same God, Josephine, I believe that our first thought in
awakening would be the last in dying,--confession,--and that our first
rush would be to the feet of one another for forgiveness. For there
are some offenses that must outlast the longest oblivion, and a
forgiveness that will be more necessary than God's own. Then our
hearts will be bared to one another; for if, as you say, there are
no secrets at our age, there can still be less cause for them after
death."

His voice ended in the faintest whisper. The table crashed over, and
the cards flew wide-spread on the floor. Before we could recover,
madame was in the antechamber, screaming for Jules.

One would have said that, from her face, the old lady had witnessed
the resurrection described by Mr. Horace, the rush of the spirits with
their burdens of remorse, the one to the feet of the other; and she
must have seen herself and her husband, with a unanimity of purpose
never apparent in their short married life, rising from their common
tomb and hastening to that other tomb at the end of the alley, and
falling at the feet of the one to whom in life he had been recreant in
love, she in friendship.

Of course Jules answered through the wrong door, rushing in with his
gas-stick, and turning off the gas. In a moment we were involved in
darkness and dispute.

"But what does he mean? What does the idiot mean? He--" It was
impossible for her to find a word to do justice to him and to her
exasperation at the same time.

"Pardon, madame; it is not I. It is the cathedral bell; it is ringing
nine o'clock."

"But--"

"Madame can hear it herself. Listen!" We could not see it, but we were
conscious of the benign, toothless smile spreading over his face as
the bell-tones fell in