with his conscience
pricking him a little for the deception he had practised, he found
himself pitying his brother as he had never done before; and when at
last the latter cried out loud, he went to him, and laying his hand
gently upon his bowed head, said to him, soothingly:

'Don't, Arthur; don't feel so badly. It is terrible to see a man cry as
you are crying.'

'No, no; let me cry,' Arthur replied. 'The tears do me good, and my
brain would burst without them. It is all on fire, and my head is aching
so hard again.'

At this moment Charles appeared, asking if his master would have dinner
served. But Arthur could not eat, and the table which had been arranged
with so much care for Gretchen was cleared away, while Gretchen's chair
was moved back from the fire and Gretchen's footstool put in its place,
and nothing remained to show that she had been expected except the
pretty dress, with its accessories, which lay upon Arthur's bed. These
he took care of himself, folding them with trembling hands and tear-wet
eyes, as a fond mother folds the clothes her dead child has worn,
sorrowing most over the half-worn shoes, so like the dear little feet
which will never wear them again. So Arthur sorrowed over the
high-heeled slippers, with the blue rosettes and pointed toes,
fashionable in Paris at that time. Gretchen had never worn them, it is
true, but they seemed so much like her that his tears fell fast as he
held them in his hands, and, dropping upon the pure white satin, left a
stain upon it.

When everything was put away and the long trunk locked again, Arthur
went back to the couch and said to his brother, who was still in the
room:

'Don't leave me, Frank; at least not yet, till I am more composed. My
nerves are dreadfully shaken to-night, and I feel afraid of something, I
don't know what. How the wind howls and moans! I never heard it like
that but once before, and that was years ago, among the Alps in
Switzerland. Then it blew off the roof of the chalet where I was
staying, and I heard afterward that Amy died that night. You remember
Amy, the girl I loved so well, though not as I love Gretchen. If she had
come, I should have told you all about her, but now it does not matter
who she is, or where I saw her first, knitting in the sunshine, with the
halo on her hair and the blue of the summer skies reflected in her eyes.
Oh, Gretchen, my love, my love!'

He was talking more to himself than to Frank, who sat beside