Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. "I shall be back presently," replied Thames, evasively. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. His room was last at the end of one winding corner. Rather would I have gone with Leonardo—and he wished me to do so. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one.
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