here to see it. One of the
most distressing interviews was with Mr. Fullerton, who could not be
persuaded that the invalid had but a short time to live. The old man
believed that death meant, beyond all question, annihilation of the
personality, and had absolutely no hope of meeting again.

"Don't be too sure, old friend," said the Professor; "don't be too sure
of anything, in this mysterious universe."

The weather kept warm and genial, and this was favourable to his
lingering among them a little longer. But his suffering, at times, was
so great that they could scarcely wish for this delay. Hadria used
always to play to him during some part of the afternoon. The robin had
become a constant visitor, and had found its way to the window of the
sick-room, where crumbs had been scattered on the sill. The Professor
took great pleasure in watching the little creature. Sometimes it would
come into the room and hop on to a chair or table, coquetting from perch
to perch, and looking at the invalid, with bright inquisitive eyes. The
crumbs were put out at a certain hour each morning, and the bird had
acquired the habit of arriving almost to the moment. If, by chance, the
crumbs had been forgotten, the robin would flutter ostentatiously before
the window, to remind his friends of their neglected duty.

During the last few days, Hadria had fancied that the Professor had
divined Valeria's secret, or that she had betrayed it.

There was a peculiar, reverent tenderness in his manner towards her,
that was even more marked than usual.

"Can't we save him? can't we save him, Hadria?" she used to cry
piteously, when they were alone. "Surely, surely there is some hope.
Science makes such professions; why doesn't it do something?"

"Ah, don't torture yourself with false hope, dear Valeria."

"The world is monstrous, life is unbearable," exclaimed Valeria, with a
despairing break in her voice.

But one afternoon, she came out of the sick-room with a less distraught
expression on her worn face, though her eyes shewed traces of tears.

The dying man used to speak often about his wife to Hadria. This had
been her room, and he almost fancied her presence about him.

"Do you know," he said, "I have found, of late, that many of my old
fixed ideas have been insidiously modifying. So many things that I used
to regard as preposterous have been borne in upon me, in a singular
fashion, as by no means so out of the question. I have had one or