could not see her, he did not want to see her; their two souls must speak together in the darkness as though they had already passed to the world beyond.
"Is it you, Paul? I was dreaming," she said in a sleepy yet frightened voice; "I thought I heard dancing, some one playing on the flute."
"Mother, listen," he said, paying no attention to her words. "That woman, Agnes, is ill. She has been ill since this morning. She had a fall; it seems she hurt her head and is bleeding from her nose."
"You don't mean it, Paul? Is she in danger?"
In the darkness her voice sounded alarmed, yet at the same time incredulous. He went on, repeating the breathless words of the servant:
"It happened this morning, after she got the letter. All day long she was pale and refused to eat, and this evening she grew worse and fell into convulsions."
He knew that he was exaggerating, and stopped: his mother did not speak. For a
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