y said to him.

Finally they drew him away.

"Better than thou," he cried, as he gave her one last kiss, "there never
has been; there never will be on earth."

"Happy are they, my son, who, on dying, can hear such words," murmured
the aged priest.

They led him away. He went straight to his study, and leaned against the
window. The day had not as yet completely dawned. The suddenness of the
shock had checked his tears. Motionless, with gleaming eyes, and leaning
his brow against the pane, he stood a long time listening to that voice
of revelation in his soul which alone has a right to speak at this
supreme hour. At last he could hear himself murmur in a hoarse voice:--

"Who knows? who knows?"

XXXI.

What more do you wish to know?

Miguel staggered like an athlete who receives a blow in the midst of his
forehead; but he did not succumb. In the unavoidable obligation upon him
of protecting his baby boy, who had lost his mother just as he was
beginning to stammer her name, he found strength to live.

His story, far from romantic, becomes even less interesting from this
time forward. It is reduced almost entirely to meditations, doubts,
hopes, discouragements,--storms such as only rage in the secret depths
of the spirit. The story of it can be interesting only to the
psychologist. Therefore we will condense this long and wearisome
narration.

He devoted his whole life to his son. Work and study, if they did not
assuage his grief, sometimes made him forget it, lifting him at the same
time to a loftier plane; as years went on, he maintained a deep and
serious sadness which left him calm enough for thought. Day nor night
did he leave his son. As often as he could, he took him with him to his
office; he used to set him down opposite him, so that when he looked up,
his eyes might fall upon that little face, in which he sought anxiously
to discover lines and features of another that was graven as with a
chisel on his very heart. If his friends wanted to make him happy for a
moment, they had only to assure him that the little one would in time
come to look exactly like his mother. On the other hand, if any one told
him that he was going to resemble him, he would stand sad and thoughtful
for a long time.

Sometimes, catching from his lips or in his eyes some expression
peculiar to Maximina, he would burst out sobbing.

The little innocent creature would then look at him in surprise and
dismay, until his fa