Quietly he knelt beside her.
"Ruth," he said, and kissed the hand that lay limp at her side.
She stirred beneath his touch.
"It's all right, Ruth," he whispered.
She opened her eyes. They lay like pools of beauty, dark in her white face, and fringed with black. They spoke to him in the silence, appealing to him. They drew him, they undid him, they purged him by their suffering of all sin, lifting him into a white heaven, where was no stain of earth, no discord, no breaking despair.
He smiled at her through his tears.
"It's all right, Ruth," he repeated.
She laid her hand on his in loveliest trust.
"Goo away, Ernie," she sighed. "I just ca'a'n't a-bear it," and her eyelids closed again.
He rose to his feet.