did he return till late in the evening. All our eyes were directed
towards him, as we rose with one accord to give him welcome; but his
face was like a mask,--it was locked and rigid and unreadable.

Shutting the door carefully after him, he came to the hearth, stood on
it, upright and calm, for a few moments, and then asked,--

"Has Blanche gone to bed?"

"Yes," said my mother, "but not to sleep, I am sure; she made me promise
to tell her when you came back."

Roland's brow relaxed.

"To-morrow, sister," said he, slowly, "will you see that she has the
proper mourning made for her? My son is dead."

"Dead!" we cried with one voice, and surrounded him with one impulse.

"Dead! impossible,--you could not say it so calmly. Dead,--how do you
know? You may be deceived. Who told you? why do you think so?"

"I have seen his remains," said my uncle, with the same gloomy calm.
"We will all mourn for him. Pisistratus, you are heir to my name now,
as to your father's. Good-night; excuse me, all--all you dear and kind
ones; I am worn out." Roland lighted his candle and went away, leaving
us thunderstruck; but he came back again, looked round, took up his
book, open in the favorite passage, nodded again, and again vanished.
We looked at each other as if we had seen a ghost. Then my father rose
and went out of the room, and remained in Roland's till the night was