“But only a little,” interrupted the mother eagerly, “and quite happy.”
“Only a little—and quite happy,” said Latimer. “There was a beautiful sunset and I drew her sofa to the windows and she lay and looked at it—and talked; and just as the sun went down——”
“All in a lovely golden glory, as if the gates of heaven were open,” the gentle voice added.
Latimer paused for an instant. His sallow face had become paler. He drew out his handkerchief and touched his forehead with it and his lips.
“All in a glow of gold,” he went on a little more hoarsely, “just as it went down, she turned on her pillow and began to speak to me. She said ‘How beautiful it all is, and how glad—,’ and her voice died away. I thought she was looking at the sky again. She had lifted her eyes to it and was smiling: the smile was on her face when I—bent over her—a few moments after—and found that all was over.”
“It was not like death at all,” said his mother with a soft breathlessness. “She never even knew.” And though tears streamed down her cheeks, she smiled.
Baird rose suddenly and went to Latimer’s side. He wore the pale and bewildered face of a man walking in a dream. He laid his hand on his shoulder.
“No, it was not like death,” he said; “try and remember that.”
“I do remember it,” was the answer.
“She escaped both death and life,” said John Baird, “both death and life.”