"It is best so," he said.
Barbe was startled beyond measure. Latterly her thoughts had been revolving much about herself, and though she had remarked the slow alteration, she had put off the assumption of the great change. Somewhere in the winter—maybe spring, and here it was with the ripening of summer.
They carried him to his room and laid him tenderly on his bed. A long, well-used life it had been.
To Daffodil it was a profound mystery. No child could comprehend it. This was the journey grandfather had spoken of, that she had imagined going back to France.
"What is it, mother? How do people go to heaven?" she asked.
"Some day we will talk it all over, when you can understand better. We must all go sometime. And we shall see each other there."
"Then it isn't so bad as never seeing one again," and there was a great tremble in her voice.
"No, dear. And God knows about the best times. We must trust to that."
He looked so peaceful the day of the burial that Daffodil thought he must be simply asleep. She said good-by to him softly. There had been no tragedy about it, but a quiet, reverent passing away.
Still, they missed him very much. Barbe wanted to set away the chair that had been so much to him. She could not bear to see it empty.