"She threw the bracelet into the case, and her eyes lighted up.

"'Oh, I am so glad, so glad! It was mine when I was a child,--my mother
gave it to me. The dear little locket--yes; you shall always wear it.'

"Then, rising from her seat, she took my hands in hers, and, looking down
into my face, said, her voice breaking:--

"'It is eleven o'clock. Soon you must leave me. You cannot stay longer. I
know that in a few hours I shall never see you again. Will you join me in
my prayers before I go?'

"A few minutes later she called to me. She was on her knees in the next
room, two candles burning beside her, her rich dark hair loose about her
shoulders, an open breviary bound with silver in her hands. I can see her
now, with her eyes closed, her lips moving noiselessly, her great lashes
wet with tears, and that Madonna-like look as she motioned me to kneel.
For several minutes she prayed thus, the candles lighting her face, the
room deathly still. Then she arose, and with her eyes half shut, and her
lips moving as if with her unfinished prayer, she lifted her head and
kissed me on the forehead, on the chin, and on each cheek, making with
her finger the sign of the cross. Then, reaching for a pair of scissors,
and cutting a small tress from her hair, she closed the locket upon it,
and laid it in my hand.

"Early the next morning I was at her door. She was dressed and waiting.
She greeted me kindly, but mournfully, saying in a tone which denoted her
belief in its impossibility:--

"'And you will not go to Cracow?'