--had been too late.

Erica made a desperate effort to realize it all; at last she brought
down the measureless agony to actual words, repeating them over and over
to herself--"Mother is dead."

At length she had grasped the idea. Her heart seemed to die within her,
a strange blue shade passed over her face, her limbs stiffened. She
felt her father carry her to the window, was perfectly conscious of
everything, watched as in a dream, while he wrenched open the clumsy
fastening of the casement, heard the voices in the street below, heard,
too, in the distance the sound of church bells, was vaguely conscious of
relief as the cold air blew upon her.

She was lying on a couch, and, if left to herself, might have lain there
for hours in that strange state of absolute prostration. But she was not
alone, and gradually she realized it. Very slowly the re-beginning of
life set in; the consciousness of her father's presence awakened her,
as it were, from her dream of unmitigated pain. She sat up, put her arms
round his neck, and kissed him, then for a minute let her aching head
rest on his shoulder. Presently, in a low but steady voice, she said:
"What would you like me to do, father?"

"To come home with me now, if you are able," he said; "tomorrow morning,
though, if you would rather wait, dear."

But the idea of waiting seemed intolerable to her. The very sound of the
word was hateful. Had she not waited two weary years, and this was the
end of it all? Any action, any present doing, however painful, but no
more waiting. No terrible pause in which more thoughts and, therefore,
more pain might grow. Outside in the passage they met Mme. Lemercier,
and presently Erica found herself surrounded by kind helpers, wondering
to find them all so tearful when her own eyes felt so hot and dry. They
were very good to her, but, separated from her father, her sorrow
again completely overwhelmed her; she could not then feel the slightest
gratitude to them or the slightest comfort from their sympathy. She lay
motionless on her little white bed, her eyes fixed on the wooden
cross on the opposite wall, or from time to time glancing at Fraulein
Sonnenthal, who, with little Ninette to help, was busily packing her
trunk. And all the while she said again and again the words which summed
up her sorrow: "Mother is dead! Mother is dead!"

After a time her eyes fell on her elaborately drawn paper of days.
Every evening since her first arrival she h