laid her to rest myself upon the bier.

She looks as though of trouble with her

she were sleeping. I had a great deal
hair I could not arrange it properly. I made them gather
marguerites—it is a pity there were no other flowers. What
are you doing here? Why are you not with them? (She
looks in at the windows.) They are not weeping! They-
you have not told them!

THE OLD MAN: Martha, Martha, there is too much life in your soul; you cannot understand. . . .

MARTHA: Why should I not understand? (after a silence, and in a tone of grave reproach.) You ought not to have done that, grandfather. . . .

THE OLD MAN: Martha, you do not know.

MARTHA I will go and tell them.

THE OLD MAN: Remain here, my child, and look for a moment. MARTHA: Oh, how I pity them! They must wait no longer. . . . THE OLD MAN: Why not?

MARTHA: I do not know, but it is not possible!

THE OLD MAN: Come here, my child. .

MARTHA: How patient they are!

THE OLD MAN: Come here, my child.

...

MARTHA (turning): Where are you, grandfather?

I am so un

happy, I cannot see you any more. I do not myself know now what to do. . .

...

THE OLD MAN: Do not look any more; until they know all. . . . MARTHA I want to go with you.

THE OLD MAN: No, Martha, stay here. Sit beside your sister on this old stone bench against the wall of the house, and do not look. You are too young, you would never be able to forget it. You cannot know what a face looks like at the moment when Death is passing into its eyes. Perhaps they will cry out, too. . . . Do not turn round. Perhaps there will be no sound at all. Above all things, if there is no sound, be sure you do not turn and look. One can never foresee the course that sorrow will take. A few little sobs wrung from the depths, and generally that is all. I do not know myself what I shall do when I hear them— they do not belong to this life. Kiss me, my child, before

I go. (The murmur of prayers has gradually drawn nearer. tion of the crowd forces its way into the garden. a sound of deadened footfalls and of whispering.)

A por

There is

THE STRANGER: (to the crowd): Stop here-do not go near the

window. Where is she?

A PEASANT: Who?

THE STRANGER: The others the bearers.

A PEASANT: They are coming by the avenue that leads up to the door.

Low

(The OLD MAN goes out. MARTHA and MARY have seated themselves on the bench, their backs to the windows. murmurings are heard among the crowd.)

THE STRANGER: Hush! Do not speak.

(In the room the taller of the two sisters rises, goes to the door, and shoots the bolts.)

MARTHA She is opening the door?

THE STARNGER: On the contrary, she is fastening it.

(A pause.)

MARTHA Grandfather has not come in?

THE STRANGER: No. She takes her seat again at her mother's side. The others do not move, and the child is still sleeping. (A pause.)

MARTHA My little sister, give me your hands.

MARY: Martha ! (They embrace and kiss each other.) THE STRANGER: He must have knocked-they have all raised their heads at the same time-they are looking at each other. MARTHA: Oh! oh! my poor little sister! I can scarcely help crying out, too. (She smothers her sobs on her sister's shoulder.)

THE STRANGER: He must have knocked again.

looking at the clock.

MARTHA Sister, sister, I

alone.

The father is

He rises.

must go in, too-they cannot be left

MARY: Martha, Martha! (She holds her back.)

THE STRANGER: The father is at the door-he is drawing the

bolts he is opening it cautiously.

MARTHA: Oh!-you do not see the .

THE STRANGER: What?

MARTHA: The bearers.

THE STRANGER: He has only opened it a very little. I see nothing but a corner of the lawn and the fountain. He keeps his hand on the door-he takes a step back—he seems to be saying "Ah, it is you!" He raises his arms. He carefully closes the door again. Your grandfather has entered the room.

...

(The crowd has come up to the window.

The

MARTHA and MARY half rise from their seat, then rise altogether and follow the rest towards the windows, pressing close to each other. OLD MAN is seen advancing into the room. The two SISTERS rise; the MOTHER also rises, and carefully settles the CHILD in the armchair which she has left, so that from outside the little one can be seen sleeping, his head a little bent forward, in the middle of the room. The MOTHER advances to meet the OLD MAN, and holds out her hand to him, but draws it back again before he has had time to take it. One of the girls wants to take off the visitor's mantle, and the other pushes forward an armchair for him. But the OLD MAN makes a little gesture of refusal. The FATHER smiles with an air of astonishment. The OLD MAN looks towards the windows.) THE STRANGER: He dares not tell them. He is looking to

wards us.

(Murmurs in the crowd.)

THE STRANGER: Hush!

(The OLD MAN, seeing faces at the windows, quickly averts his eyes. As one of the girls is still offering him the armchair, he at last sits down, and passes his right hand several times over his forehead.)

THE STRANGER: He is sitting down.

...

(The others who are in the room also sit down, while the FATHER seems to be speaking volubly. At last the OLD Man opens his mouth, and the sound of his voice seems to arouse their attention. But the FATHER interrupts him. The OLD MAN begins to speak again, and little by little the others grow tense with apprehension. All of a sudden the MOTHER starts and rises.)

MARTHA: Oh! the mother begins to understand!

Chil

(She turns away and hides her face in her hands. Renewed murmurs among the crowd. They elbow each other. dren cry to be lifted up, so that they may see too. Most of the mothers do as they wish.)

THE STRANGER: Hush! he has not told them yet. (The MOTHER is seen to be questioning the OLD MAN with

anxiety. He says a few more words; then, suddenly, all the others rise, too, and seem to question him. Then he slowly makes an affirmative movement of his head.)

THE STRANGER: He has told them-he has told them all at once !

VOICES IN THE CROWD: He has told them! he has told them! THE STRANGER: I can hear nothing.

(The OLD MAN also rises, and, without turning, makes a gesture indicating the door, which is behind him. The MOTHER, the FATHER, and the two DAUGHTERS rush to this door, which the FATHER has difficulty in opening. The OLD MAN tries to prevent the MOTHER from going out.)

VOICES IN THE CROWD: They are going out! they are going

out. . . .

(Confusion among the crowd in the garden. All hurry to the other side of the house and disappear, except the STRANGER, who remains at the windows. In the room, the folding-door is at last thrown wide open; all go out at the same time. Beyond can be seen the starry sky, the lawn and the fountain in the moonlight; while, left alone in the middle of the room, the CHILD continues to sleep peacefully in the armchair. A pause.)

THE STRANGER: The child has not awakened!

A LADY JOURNALIST*

BY GEORGE PASTON

T is well known to those who have studied the subject that there are three distinct species of the genus editor. There is the editor who can be seen at any time, the editor who can only be seen by appointment, and the editor who can never be seen at all. Mr. Fleming, the editor of the Reader, that high-class weekly which concerns itself chiefly with literature, politics, and the fine arts, belonged nominally to the second species, but the law that forbade entrance to casual visitors was not immutable, for a good deal of discretion was vested in the person of his head clerk, the respectable Johnson. Johnson seemed to know by instinct when a visitor, however shabby his appearance, was an influential personage to be conciliated instead of snubbed, and he could always detect possibilities of new and striking "copy" behind the most vacuous and unpromising countenance. Mr. Fleming put perfect faith in Johnson's sagacity, and he had very seldom been disappointed. One wet November morning, however, his trust was somewhat rudely shaken by the invasion of his private sanctum by a young lady, whom Johnson, with rather a shamefaced air, announced as,

Mr. Fleming jumped to his feet in some confusion, and stared at his unexpected visitor in a manner that most young ladies would have found rather embarrassing. But Miss Lambert

seemed completely at her ease, as she bowed to the cditor, and asked him if it wasn't a dreadful morning.

"May I dry my feet at your fire ?" she asked plaintively. "My shoes are soaked through and through, and that is so dangerous, you know."

Without waiting for permission she drew up a chair to the fire, and, sitting down, placed her feet upon the top bar of the

From "The English Illustrated Magazine."