familiarity as if they recognized in her an old friend. A few grains of
wheat and a few crumbs of bread scattered on the window-sill gradually
attracted the more timid, who grew at last to be familiar. The slightest
movement, indeed, caused them to take flight precipitately; but they soon
recovered their lost confidence and they returned again to hop gayly on
the iron railing of the window.

Berta watched them, and as she watched them she smiled; and at the end of
a few days she had induced them to come in and out with perfect
confidence. In her solitary walks through the garden and through the
avenue of lime trees which led to the villa, they followed her, flying
from tree to tree. She spent a few hours of the morning, every day, in the
pavilion, and there the birds came also, mingling their joyous carols
with the melancholy strains of the piano; but the mad gayety of the birds
was powerless to mitigate the profound sadness of Berta; her one thought
was still Adrian--Adrian Baker.

This name, which never escaped her lips, was to be seen written everywhere
by Berta's hand, on the garden walls, on the trunks of the trees; and even
the vines that covered the pavilion had interlaced their branches in such
a manner that "Adrian Baker" could be deciphered in them. This name was to
be met everywhere, like the mute echo of an undying memory.

During the morning hours Berta's countenance seemed to be more animated,
and her cheeks had even at times a rosy hue; but as the day declined her
transient animation faded away, as if the sun of her life too approached
its setting.

Seated at her window she contemplated in silence the clouds illumined by
the last rays of the setting sun. Juana, who had exhausted in vain all her