This month was the anniversary of the time when they had lost their child, and each year at this date they had the same regrets and the same longings; he, trembling at her feet, happy to realise that he was pardoned; she, loving and distressed, blaming herself for everything, and despairing that Fate had been inexorable to all their prayers.

They spoke of all this to no one, were the same to outsiders in every way, but this increase of tenderness between them came from their room like a silent perfume, disengaged itself from their persons at the least movement, by each word, and by their way of looking at each other, when it seemed as if for the moment they almost exchanged souls.

All this was like the grave accompaniment, the deep continuous bass, upon which sang in clear notes the two hearts of the young couple.
One week had passed, and the work on the mitre advanced.

These daily meetings had assumed a great and sweet familiarity.
"The forehead should be very high, should it not?
Without any trace of eyebrows ?" "Yes, very high, and not the slightest shade.

Quite like an old miniature." "Will you pass me the white silk ?" "Wait a minute, that I may thread it." He helped her, and this union of work put them at their ease.