She read on to the end of the book, where the mourners sat down to the sepulchral feast:
"And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade."
Then she closed the volume and looked at Timothy.
"Why do we sup it so eagerly?" she asked. "It's a poisoned cup to some, a bitter one to most, and sweet only to a few, a very few."
The old man knew that she referred to life.
"There was a preacher once," he said, "who thought it a burden too heavy to be borne. He believed in re-birth, countless re-births through generations, and the idea filled him with despair. His name was Gautama, but people called him Buddha, the Enlightened One, the Enlightener. He found a way of salvation and opened it to men."
"Was it a good way?"
"Judge for thyself, Barbara. The mind" he said, "approaching the eternal, has attained to the extinction of all desires?"
She mused for a moment upon the words.
"I don't like them," she replied, "If I had no desires I shouldn't be Barbara Lynn but a lump of clay."