It was open, and the dead girl's couch was so high that it seemed as though the sleeper was only resting lightly on the white silk pillow.

A wreath again encircled her head, but this time blossoming myrtles blended with the laurel in the brown curls that lay in thick, soft locks on the snowy pillows and the lace-trimmed shroud.
Juliane's eyes were closed.

Ah! how gladly Kuni would have kissed those long-lashed lids to win even one look of forgiveness from her whom her curse had perhaps snatched from the green spring world! She remembered the sunny radiance with which this sleeper's eyes had sparkled as they met Lienhard's.

They were the pure mirror of the keen, mobile intellect and the innocent, loving soul of this rare child.

Now death had closed them, and Juliane's end had been one of suffering.
The pale embroiderer had said so, and the sorrowful droop of the sweet little mouth, which gave the wondrously beautiful, delicate, touching little face so pathetic an expression, betrayed it.