rl; she
thought of all her little ways, her affectionate words, the way she used
to move, the wrinkles that came round her eyes when she laughed, the
deep sigh she always heaved when she sat down, and all her little, daily
habits, and as she stood gazing at the dead body she kept repeating,
almost mechanically: "She is dead; she is dead;" until at last she
realized all the horror of that word.

The woman who was lying there--mamma--little mother--Madame Adelaide,
was dead! She would never move, never speak, never laugh, never say,
"Good morning, Jeannette"; never sit opposite her husband at the dinner
table again. She was dead. She would be enclosed in a coffin, placed
beneath the ground, and that would be the end; they would never see her
again. It could not be possible! What! She, her daughter, had now no
mother! Had she indeed lost for ever this dear face, the first she had
ever looked upon, the first she had ever loved, this kindly loving
mother, whose place in her heart could never be filled? And in a few
hours even this still, unconscious face would have vanished, and then
there would be nothing left her but a memory. She fell on her knees in
despair, wringing her hands and pressing her lips to the bed.

"Oh, mother, mother! My darling mother!" she cried, in a broken voice
which was stifled by the bed-covering.

She felt she was going mad; mad, like the night she had fled into the
snow. She rushed to the window to breathe the fresh air which had not
passed over the corpse or the bed on which it lay. The new-mown hay, the
trees, the waste land and the distant sea lay peacefully sleeping in the
moonlight, and the tears welled up into Jeanne's eyes as she looked out
into the clear, calm night. She went back to her seat by the bedside and
held her mother's dead hand in hers, as if she were lying ill instead of
dead. Attracted by the lighted candles, a big, winged insect had entered
through the open window and was flying about the room, dashing against
the wall at every moment with a faint thud. It disturbed Jeanne, and she
looked up to see where it was, but she could only see its shadow moving
over the white ceiling.

Its buzzing suddenly ceased, and then, besides the regular ticking of
the clock, Jeanne noticed another fainter rustling noise. It was the
ticking of her mother's watch, which had been forgotten when her dress
had been taken off and thrown at the foot of the bed, and the idea of
this little piece of