“Yes—only asleep.”
Another voice said:
“In the morning, I expect. Often they sleep away.”
A doubting young woman said:
“Mebby it just happened now and he ain’t cold yet.”
But her elders, who had seen death often, only frowned.
Then they went out.
Old Liebereich lay very still. He was icy cold. The feet and hands they had touched would not get warm. He felt yet their cold touch. Two tears stole down his cheeks. His heart was still filled to bursting. Yet he lay quite still. Presently something like content came and stayed, and smoothed the sorrow from his face, and made it beautiful.
V
THE SECOND OPENING OF THE DOOR
Then, without the least warning, the door opened again, directly in his eyes, and everything was quite as he had fancied it. Like a picture in its frame, there stood his wife dressed for Christmas. And she was well and happy—by the smiles on her face. And the morning had come, as he had wished; for, as the door opened, the sun behind her smote away the darkness, and it seemed as if she had come down to him on those sheaves of glittering javelins. And yes, closely crowding behind her, came the very people he knew would come, filling all the door and making a background for his picture. Such a background! He forgave them all at once. For he must have dreamed those other, sadder things. And, more,—and better still,—the bells of the little town were jangling out their Christmas madrigal. (You know how dear the bells are to Germans!)