low! The New Year's presents were not too
much; nothing could be too much now. I
wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief
in my breast-pocket, worn for elegance and
not at all for use, was wet through by the
time that moribund woman sank for the last
time into the arms of her lover.

When we reached the door of the theater,
the streets were shining with rain. I had
prudently brought along Mrs. Harling's use-
ful Commencement present, and I took Lena
home under its shelter. After leaving her, I
walked slowly out into the country part of
the town where I lived. The lilacs were all
blooming in the yards, and the smell of them
after the rain, of the new leaves and the blos-
soms together, blew into my face with a sort
of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the
puddles and under the showery trees, mourn-
ing for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died
only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840,
which had sighed so much, and which had
reached me only that night, across long years
and several languages, through the person of
an infirm old actress. The idea is one that no
circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and
whenever that piece is put on, it is April.

[[314]]

p313 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p314w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p315

v?