We espy her figure in that twilight of which she is beginning to make a part, though fine and faint as a pistil.
"Poor little angel!" says a woman, as she goes by.
Marie and her father are the only ones left near me when we pass Rampaille's tavern.

Some men who were at the funeral are sitting at tables there, black-clad.
We reach my home; Marie offers me her hand, and we hesitate.

"Come in." She enters.

We look at the dead room; the floor is wet, and the wind blows through as if we were out of doors.

Both of us are crying, and she says, "I will come to-morrow and tidy up.