face. He had fallen asleep, or at any rate his eyes were closed. The copy of “Madame Bovary” lay on the floor, and near it a gold pencil-case. Quietly I picked the book up, and saw on the yellow cover of it some words written in pencil. These were the words:

“Carl, I love her. He has come again. This time it is — — ”

I looked long at his calm and noble face, and bent and listened. At that moment Rosa entered. Concealing the book, I held out my right hand with a gesture.

“Softly!” I enjoined her, and my voice broke.

“Why? What?”

“He is dead,” I said.

It did not occur to me that I ought to have prepared her.