cemetery. Paul, sobbing, headed the procession; Monsieur Bourais
followed, and then came the principle inhabitants of the town, the women
covered with black capes, and Felicite. The memory of her nephew, and
the thought that she had not been able to render him these honours,
made her doubly unhappy, and she felt as if he were being buried with
Virginia.

Madame Aubain's grief was uncontrollable. At first she rebelled against
God, thinking that he was unjust to have taken away her child--she who
had never done anything wrong, and whose conscience was so pure! But no!
she ought to have taken her South. Other doctors would have saved her.
She accused herself, prayed to be able to join her child, and cried in
the midst of her dreams. Of the latter, one more especially haunted her.
Her husband, dressed like a sailor, had come back from a long voyage,
and with tears in his eyes told her that he had received the order to
take Virginia away. Then they both consulted about a hiding-place.

Once she came in from the garden, all upset. A moment before (and she
showed the place), the father and daughter had appeared to her, one
after the other; they did nothing but look at her.

During several months she remained inert in her room. Felicite scolded
her gently; she must keep up for her son and also for the other one, for
"her memory."

"Her memory!" replied Madame Aubain, as if she were just awakening, "Oh!
yes, yes, you do not forget her!" This was an allusion to the cemetery
where she had been expressly forbidden to go.

But Felicite went there every day. At four o'clock exactly, she would go