flesh, and for one brief hour to bring back to it the vanished spirit of
Isarte. For there is no one living that can understand my pain; but you
would understand it, and put my tired head against your breast, and
cover me with your grief-whitened hair as with a mantle. For your pain
was like mine, and exceeded mine, and no soul could measure it,
therefore in the hunger of your heart you looked far off into the
future, where some one would perhaps have a like affliction, and suffer
without hope, as you suffered, and measure your pain, and love your
memory, and feel united with you, even over the gulf of long centuries
of time. You would speak to me of it all, and tell me that the greatest
grief was to go away into darkness, leaving no one with your blood and
your spirit to inherit the house. This also is my grief, Isarte, for I
am barren and eaten up by death, and must soon go away to be where you
are. When I am gone, the father of the house will take no other one to
his bosom, for he is old, and his life is nearly complete; and in a
little while he will follow me, but with no pain and anguish like mine
to cloud his serene spirit. And who will then inherit our place? Ah, my
sister, how bitter to think of it! for then a stranger will be the
mother of the house, and my one only child will sit at her feet, calling
her mother, serving her with her hands, and loving and worshiping her
with her heart!"

The excitement had now burned itself out: she had dropped her head
wearily on my shoulder, and bade me take her back. When I had safely
deposited her on the couch again, she remained for some minutes with her
face covered, silently weeping.

The scene in the gallery had deeply affected me; now, however, while I
sat by her, pondering over it, my mind reverted to that vanished world
of sorrow and different social conditions in which I had lived, and