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perpetual sleep—so simple that she smiled. Why had

she waited so long?

Then, suddenly, she hesitated. She was not only a dancer, but also by instinct, a dramatic actress. Therefore it seemed to her only fitting that for this final farewell she should insure the discovery afterward, not of a corpse dressed in a nightgown, but of something more beautiful, more splendid. She determined that, in the morning, when she had escaped beyond recall from so much that was hateful, those who came in search of her should find not a woman, but the Ondine, the Snow Bird, the Sylphide, lying with pale wings for ever folded.

As she had lived, so would she die. Not as a human personality, but as the recognized symbol of spiritual,

exquisite grace.

She kept always with her in her private wardrobe, as a species of amulet, the Snow Bird costume in which she had danced before Guy on the first night of the London season. She found it now and dragged it from a drawer, scattering chemises and handkerchiefs in her haste to discover if it was still fit for her to wear, this garment

destined to be her shroud.

The inspection was satisfactory. She took off her nightgown and began to dress herself, calm, absorbed, staring into the mirror with somber eyes. She was so unused to waiting upon herself that it took her quite ten minutes to hook her bodice, but at last she gazed upon a reflection that she had seen before in the mirrors of a thousand different dressing-rooms.

The Snow Bird, facing her, stood poised as though for