It smarted very much, but Rupert smiled bravely. "Just a few minutes' pain, Aunt Edith. That's all. Do you know what I have got to think lately?"
She put the cork into the long green bottle, and sat down close to his sofa. "What, dear?"
"That we must be blind, foolish mortals to fret so much under misfortunes. A little patience, and they pass away."
"It would be better for us all if we had more patience, more trust," she answered. "If we could leave things more entirely to God."
Rupert lay with his eyes cast upwards, blue as the sky he looked at. "I would have tried to put that great trust in God, had I lived," he said, after a pause. "Do you know, Aunt Edith, at times I do wish I could have lived."
"I wish so, too," she murmured.
"At least, I should wish it but for this feeling of utter fatigue that is always upon me. I sha'n't feel it up there, Aunt Edith."
"No, no," she whispered.
"When you get near to death, knowing that it is upon you, as I know it, I think you obtain clearer views of the reality of things. It seems to me, looking back on the life I am leaving, as if it were of no consequence at what period of life we die; whether young or old; and yet how terrible a calamity death is looked upon by people in general."
"It needs sorrow or illness to reconcile us to it, Rupert. Most of us must be tired of this life ere we can bring ourselves to anticipate another, and wish for it."