Look, everything is in its old place--there the lamp by which she used to read, on the table a half-written letter, which nobody has read.

A hundred times have I entered the room, and not a word of that letter have I read.

To me it is holy.

In front of the bed are her two little embroidered slippers, so tiny that they look as if they had been made for a child.

On the table is an open prayer-book, between the open leaves of which are an iris and an amaranth and a maple leaf.