realise that it was she.  Why were those eyes so sunken?  What had laid that dreadful paleness upon her cheeks, and stamped the black spot beneath the transparent skin on one of them?  Why was the expression of the whole face so cold and severe?  Why were the lips so white, and their outline so beautiful, so majestic, so expressive of an unnatural calm that, as I looked at them, a chill shudder ran through my hair and down my back?

Somehow, as I gazed, an irrepressible, incomprehensible power seemed to compel me to keep my eyes fixed upon that lifeless face.  I could not turn away, and my imagination began to picture before me scenes of her active life and happiness.  I forgot that the corpse lying before me now—­the thing at which I was gazing unconsciously as at an object which had nothing in common with my dreams—­was she.  I fancied I could see her—­now here, now there, alive, happy, and smiling.  Then some well-known feature in the face at which I was gazing would suddenly arrest my attention, and in a flash I would recall the terrible reality and shudder-though still unable to turn my eyes away.

Then again the dreams would replace reality—­then again the reality put to flight the dreams.  At last the consciousness of both left me, and for a while I became insensible.

How long I remained in that condition I do not know, nor yet how it occurred.  I only know that for a time I lost all sense of existence, and experienced a kind of vague blissfulness which though grand and sweet, was also sad.  It may be that, as it ascended to a better world, her beautiful soul had looked down with longing at the world in which she had left us—­that it had seen my sorrow, and, pitying me, had returned to earth on the wings of love to console and bless me with a heavenly smile of compassion.

The door creaked as the chanter entered who was to relieve his predecessor.  The noise awakened me, and my first thought was that, seeing me standing on the chair in a posture which had nothing touching in its aspect, he might take me for an unfeeling boy who had climbed on to the chair out of mere curiosity:  wherefore I hastened to make the sign of the cross, to bend down my head, and to burst out crying.  As I recall now my impressions of that episode I find that it was only during my moments of self-forgetfulness that my grief was wholehearted.  True, both before and after the funeral I never ceased to cry and to look miserable, yet I feel conscience-stricken when I recall that grief of mine, seeing that always present in it there was an element of conceit—­of a desire to show that I was more grieved than any one else, of an interest which I took in observing the effect, produced upon others by my tears, and of an idle curiosity leading me to remark Mimi’s bonnet and the faces of all present.  The mere circumstance that I despised myself for not feeling grief to the exclusion of everything else, and that I endeavoured to conceal the fact, shows that my sadness was insincere and unnatural.  I took a delight in feeling that I was unhappy, and in trying to feel more so.  Consequently this egotistic consciousness completely annulled any element of sincerity in my woe.