hat a lovely
morning! Then she looked towards the iron gate, and caught sight of
the little coffin under the white drapery. Monsieur Rambaud allowed
her to take but two or three steps forward.

"Now, be brave," he said to her, while a shudder ran through his own
frame.

They gazed on the scene. The narrow coffin was bathed in sunshine. At
the foot of it, on a lace cushion, was a silver crucifix. To the left
the holy-water sprinkler lay in its font. The tall wax tapers were
burning with almost invisible flames. Beneath the hangings, the
branches of the trees with their purple shoots formed a kind of bower.
It was a nook full of the beauty of spring, and over it streamed the
golden sunshine irradiating the blossoms with which the coffin was
covered. It seemed as if flowers had been raining down; there were
clusters of white roses, white camellias, white lilac, white
carnations, heaped in a snowy mass of petals; the coffin was hidden
from sight, and from the pall some of the white blossoms were falling,
the ground being strewn with periwinkles and hyacinths. The few
persons passing along the Rue Vineuse paused with a smile of tender
emotion before this sunny garden where the little body lay at peace
amongst the flowers. There seemed to be a music stealing up from the
snowy surroundings; in the glare of light the purity of the blossoms
grew dazzling, and the sun flushed hangings, nosegays, and wreaths of
flowers, with a very semblance of life. Over the roses a bee flew
humming.

"Oh, the flowers! the flowers!" murmured Helene, powerless to say
another word.

She pressed her handkerchief to her lips, and her eyes filled with
tears. Jeanne must be warm, she thought, and with this idea a wave of
emotion rose in her bosom; she felt very grateful to those who had
enveloped her child in flowers. She wished to go forward, and Monsieur
Rambaud made no effort to hold her back. How sweet was the scene
beneath the cloud of drapery! Perfumes were wafted upwards; the air
was warm and still. Helene stooped down and chose one rose only, that
she might place it in her bosom. But suddenly she commenced to
tremble, and Monsieur Rambaud became uneasy.

"Don't stay here," he said, as he drew her away. "You promised not to
make yourself unwell."

He was attempting to lead her into the pavilion when the door of the
drawing-room was thrown open. Pauline was the first to appear. She had
undertaken the duty of arranging the funeral process