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 That night she pleaded that she was not quite well—she had a headache from the heat of the past day, and feared the suffocating atmosphere of the theatre.

She smiled and sang a little to herself, and told me she would sit by the open window in the little alcove which she had made peculiarly her own, and wait for me and hear the tidings of the night's triumphs when I returned.

I knew the theatre was oppressive at this season of the year, crowded nightly as it was, and I did not attempt to press her to accompany me.

I took her an immense knot of white roses which I had bought in the town. She set them in a large blue jar, and said their fragrance and freshness had already done her good. She kissed me, and threw her arms about my neck, and murmured, with a little tender laugh, "Au revoir, au revoir!" and then bade me go or I should be late.

I left her sitting in the window, the unlit lamp, with a small crucifix against it, on the table by her, with the jar of roses.

She had her frame and bobbins, and was working at her lace. She looked at me from the open lattice, and waved me a second adieu.

I had no thought, no suspicion. I only said to