The clear star beamed in the purple-tinted air, its rays fell upon
him, and upon the marble Psyche; he trembled whilst he contemplated
the image of immortality, his glance even appeared impure to him. He
threw a covering over it, he touched it once more in order to veil its
form, but he could not view his work.

Still, sombre, buried in his own meditations, he sat there the whole
day; he took no heed of what passed around him, no one knew what was
agitating this human heart. Days passed by, weeks passed by; the
nights were the longest. One morning, the twinkling star saw him rise
from his couch--pale--trembling with fever; he walked to the marble
statue, lifted the cover, gazed upon his work with a sorrowful, deep,
long look, and then almost sinking under the weight, he drew the
statue into the garden. There was a sunken, dried-up well, within it,
into which he lowered the Psyche, threw earth upon it and covered the
fresh grave with small sticks and nettles.

"Away! Away," was the short funereal service.

The star in the rosy red atmosphere saw this, and two heavy tears
trembled on the deathly pale cheeks of the fever sick one--sick unto
death, as they called him.

The lay brother Ignatius came to him as a friend and as a physician.
He came, and with the consoling words of religion, he spoke of the
peace and happiness of the church, of the sins of man, of the mercy
and peace of God.

The words fell like warm sun beams on the moist, fermenting ground;