“Know? What mean you?”
“Yes, I am what they call dead; and were you not likewise, you could not see me!”
“I dead?” she replied, with a laugh which recalled her childhood, throwing her arms gracefully over her head. “Look you, mama, how far from it I am. I have been wretchedly sick, and in such fiery pain; but it is over, and I am perfectly well.”
We drew to one side, and she then turning saw the friends, weeping, and her body on the couch.
“Why do they weep?” she asked, “and who is that on the couch? I am confused, for it is like another self.”
“They are weeping for your loss, and that form on the couch is yours.”
“Am I to return to it? What am I to do, dear mother?”
“No, you will need it no more. Your life is hereafter with me and the angels.”
“What mean you, mother, by saying you and I are dead?”
“That we are, my child. That is what people call dead.”