The Last Heights 



and a breaking heart! Suffering pressed 

 closely upon him at the close of his days. 



" It is better to be loved than to be cele- 

 brated," said Aubanel, the delicate poet of 

 Avignon. As long as Fabre had beside him 

 his beloved brother, his adored wife, and his 

 darling children, he was at least conscious of 

 a kindly atmosphere of memories, and of 

 tenderness that made up for what he lacked 

 and helped him to endure his afflictions with 

 serene resignation. 



But now, little by little, there came a void 

 about him. Death has its surprises and life 

 its demands. 



With the death of his wife, in July 1912, 

 half his own soul died. With that of his 

 brother, in 1913, his life was almost wholly 

 shattered, crushed, buried in the tomb. 



With the marriage of the last of his sons 

 and his two youngest daughters almost all the 

 life of the house, all the caressing grace of 

 light, considerate footfalls, of clear tender 

 voices, of smiles and kisses, had forsaken the 

 old man, to return only in passing and at dis- 

 tant intervals. His isolation became more 

 and more complete. 



Was all over? No, this was hardly the 

 beginning of his afflictions. In the great 

 silence of the harmas there burst of a sudden 



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