y, my service is
to you."

"Have you got what you looked for?" I asked.

To which he replied, "I did not look for any specific thing. I only
hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was, only some letters
and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and
we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor
lad tomorrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some."

When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me, "And now, friend
John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest
to recuperate. Tomorrow we shall have much to do, but for the tonight
there is no need of us. Alas!"

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had
certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small
chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,
and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the
winding sheet was laid over the face. When the Professor bent over
and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us.
The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All
Lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that
had passed, instead of leaving traces of 'decay's effacing fingers',
had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not
believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.

The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had,
and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me, "Remain
till I return," and left the room. He came back with a handful of
wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been
opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the
bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold
crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its
place, and we came away.

I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the
door, he entered, and at once began to speak.

"Tomorrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem
knives."

"Must we make an autopsy?" I asked.

"Yes and no. I want to operate, but not what you think. Let me tell
you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and
take out her heart. Ah! You a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I
have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and
death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I