voice continued to whisper, “alone . . . alone. . . .”
The funeral march pierced her heart with its lamenting tones. Her own sorrow lay as a weight on her drooping head, and she softly sobbed at those tones.
“What will you do with your life? Why live at all? . . . Why? . . . Why? . . .”
As if her soul were secretly reviewing all the impressions of the past days, as if it had now placed before her eyes their crushing result, Lucy whispered aloud: “The end!”
The old aunt with her white head and those kindly eyes now rose before her mind. Lucy sighed, and felt as though she were once more grasping the trembling, sere fingers. But hundreds of strange, furious hands drew her back,—the picture of the aunt became more indistinct, and disappeared. . . . Again she was alone . . . strange hands were stirring . . . they were tearing her garments . . . they were drawing her down-
