ad gone through the almost
religious ceremony of marking off the day; it had often been a great
consolation to her. The paper was much worn; the weeks and days yet to
be marked were few in number. She looked at it now, and if there can be
a "more" to absolute grief, an additional pang to unmitigated sorrow, it
came to her at the sight of that visible record of her long exile. She
snatched down the paper and tore it to pieces; then sunk back again,
pale and breathless. Fraulein Sonnenthal saw and understood. She came to
her, and kissed her.

"Herzbluttchen," she said, almost in a whisper, and, after a moment's
pause: "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott."

Erica made an impatient gesture, and turned away her head.

"Why does she choose this time of all others to tell me so," she thought
to herself. "Now, when I can't argue or even think! A sure tower! Could
a delusion make one feel that anything is sure but death at such a time
as this! Everything is gone--or going. Mother is dead!--mother is dead!
Yet she meant to be kind, poor Thekla, she didn't know it would hurt."

Mme. Lemercier came into the room with a cup of coffee and a brioche.

"You have a long journey before you, my little one," she said; "you must
take this before you start."

Yes, there was the journey; that was a comfort. There was something
to be done, something hard and tiring--surely it would blunt her
perceptions. She started up with a strange sort of energy, put on her
hat and cloak, swallowed the food with an effort, helped to lock her
trunk, moved rapidly about the room, looking for any chance possession
which might have been left out. There was such terrible anguish in her
tearless eyes that little Ninette shrunk away from her in alarm. Mme.
Lemercier, who in the time of the siege had seen great suffering, had
never seen anything like this; even Thekla Sonnenthal realized that for
the time she was beyond the reach of human comfort.

Before long the farewells were over. Erica was once more alone with her
father, her cheeks wet with the tears of others, her own eyes still hot
and dry. They were to catch the four o'clock train; the afternoon was
dark, and already the streets and shops were lighted; Paris, ever bright
and gay, seemed tonight brighter and gayer than ever. She watched the
placid-looking passengers, the idle loungers at the cafes; did they know
what pain was? Did they know that death was sure? Presently she found
herself in a second-clas