Meanwhile the voices of the men, who had done eating and were now drinking, came louder and louder into the women’s apartments.  When the merriment of her guests rose to a higher pitch than usual, or something amusing gave rise to a shout of laughter, Berenike shrank, and either muttered some unintelligible threat or besought the forgiveness of her daughter’s manes.

It seemed to be a relief to her to rush from one mood to the other; but neither in her grief, nor when her motherly feeling led her to talk, nor yet in her wrath, did she lose her perfect dignity.  All Melissa saw and heard moved her to pity or to horror.  And meanwhile she was worn out with anxiety for her family, and with increasing fatigue.

At last, however, she was released.  A gay chorus of women’s voices and flutes came up from the banqueting-hall.  With a haughty mien and dilated nostrils Berenike listened to the first few bars.  That such a song should be heard in her house of woe was too much; with her own hand she closed the shutters over the window next her; then she bade her young guest go to bed.

Oh, how glad was the overtired girl to stretch herself on the soft couch!  As usual, before going to sleep, she told her mother in the spirit all the history of the day.  Then she prayed to the manes of the departed to lend her aid in the heavy task before her; but in the midst of her prayer sleep overcame her, and her young bosom was already rising and falling in regular breathing when she was roused by a visit from the lady Berenike.

Melissa suddenly beheld her at the head of the bed, in a flowing white night-dress, with her hair unpinned, and holding a silver lamp in her hand; and the girl involuntarily put up her arms as if to protect herself, for she fancied that the daemon of madness stared out of those large black eyes.  But the unhappy woman’s expression changed, and she looked down kindly on Melissa.  She quietly set the lamp on the table, and then, as the cool nightbreeze blew in through the open window, to which there was no shutter, she tenderly wrapped the white woolen blanket round Melissa, and muttered to herself, “She liked it so.”

Then she knelt down by the side of the bed, pressed her lips on the brow of the girl, now fully awake, and said: 

“And you, too, are fair to look upon.  He will grant your prayer!”

Then she asked Melissa about her lover, her father, her mother, and at last she, unexpectedly, asked her in a whisper: 

“Your brother Alexander, the painter—­My daughter, though in death, inspired his soul with love.  Yes, Korinna was dear to him.  Her image is living in his soul.  Am I right?  Tell me the truth!”

On this Melissa confessed how deeply the painter had been impressed by the dead girl’s beauty, and that he had given her his heart and soul with a fervor of devotion of which she had never imagined him capable.  And the poor mother smiled as she heard it, and murmured, “I was sure of it.”