nful dream. Her usually clear and tranquil soul was troubled and
bewildered as she sat in the boat at the head of Felicita's coffin, with
her dear face so near to her, yet hidden from her eyes. All around her
lay the Lake, with a fine rapid ripple on the silvery blue of its
waters, as the rowers, with measured and rhythmical strokes of their
oars, carried the boat's sad freight on towards Lucerne. The evening sun
was shining aslant down the wooded slopes of the lower hills, and dark
blue shadows gathered where its rays no longer penetrated. That
half-consciousness, common to all of us, that she had gone through this
passage in her life before, and that this sorrow had already had its
counterpart in some other state of existence, took possession of her;
and with it came a feeling of resigning herself to fate. She was worn
out with anxiety and grief. What would come might come. She could exert
herself no longer.

As they drew near to Lucerne, the clangor of military music and the
merry pealing of bells rang across the water, jarring upon her faint and
sorrowful heart. Some fete was going on, and all the populace was
active. Banners floated from all the windows, and a gay procession was
parading along the quay, marching under the echoing roof of the long
wooden bridge which crossed the green torrent of the river. Numberless
little boats were darting to and fro on the smooth surface of the Lake,
and through them all her own, bearing Felicita's coffin, sped swiftly on
its way to the landing-stage, on which, as if standing there amid the
hubbub to receive it, her sad eyes saw Canon Pascal and Felix.

They had but just reached Lucerne, and were waiting for the next steamer
starting to Stans, when Felix had caught sight of the boat afar off,
with its long, narrow burden, covered by a black pall; and as it drew
nearer he had distinguished Phebe sitting beside it alone. Until this
moment it had seemed absolutely incredible that his mother could be
dead, though the telegram to Canon Pascal had said so distinctly. There
must be some mistake, he had constantly reiterated as they hurried
through France to Lucerne; Phebe had been frightened, and in her terror
had misled herself and them. No wonder his mother should be
ill--dangerously so, after the fatigue and agitation of a journey to
Engelberg; but she could not be dead. Phebe had had no opportunity of
telegraphing again; for they had set off at once, and from Basle they
had brough