"A good joke?" she began. "And that is what you Puritan gentlemen of God and volcanoes of Correct Thought snuffle over as a good joke? Well, with the highest respect to Professor Doctor Miles Standish, the Puritan Hearse-hound, and Professor Doctor Elder Brewster, the Plymouth Dr. Frank Crane—BLAA!"
She shrieked this last in their faces and fell lifeless at their feet.
She never recovered consciousness; an hour later she died. An overdose of the medicine had been too much for her weak heart.
"Poor William," comforted Elder Brewster, "you must be brave. You will miss her sorely. But console yourself with the thought that it was for the best. Priscilla has gone where she will always be happy. She has at last found that bliss which she searched for in vain on earth."
"Yes William," added Miles Standish. "Priscilla has now found eternal joy."
VIII
Heaven.
Smug saints with ill-fitting halos and imitation wings, singing meaningless hymns which Priscilla had heard countless times before.
Sleek prosaic angels flying aimlessly around playing stale songs on sickly yellow harps.
Three of the harps badly out of tune; two strings missing on another.