now." He fell to dreaming of their meeting, and what she would say—how they would look at each other and go hand in hand amongst the strangers in the new world of everlasting time, she pointing out the wonders he had not seen.
His niece came upon him and reproached his dry eyes.
"You did not weep for her," she said.
"Tell me about her; how did she look?" he answered, holding her hand.
The girl turned her eyes aside.
"Her face was—her face—when she died she looked beautiful; all the—the—deformity went, and her face fell back into its young lines. It was like death triumphing over life, if you can understand."
The old man dropped her hand, and took from his pocket a lump of wax. "It will be my masterpiece," he said—"death triumphing over life." He commenced modelling.
The girl sprang to her feet.
"You do not care at all for her," she said. "I hate you. Uncle Henry; you did not cry a tear."
The old man's feeble fingers trembled so that
