Presently the bell of the church began to toll, and up the village street came a long procession. They were carrying an old man to his last resting-place. She followed them with her eyes till they turned in among the trees at the gate.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“An old man,” he answered, “a very old man; they say he was ninety-four; but his name I do not know.”
She mused a while, looking out with fixed eyes.
“That is why the bell rang so cheerfully,” she said. “When the old die it is well; they have had their time. It is when the young die that the bells weep drops of blood.”
“But the old love life?” he said; for it was sweet to hear her speak.
She raised herself on her elbow.
“They love life, they do not want to die,” she answered, “but what of that? They have had their time. They knew that a man’s life is three-score years and ten; they should have made their plans accordingly!
“But the young,” she said, “the young, cut down, cruelly, when they have not seen, when they have not known—when they have not found—it is for them that the bells weep blood. I heard in the ringing it was an old man. When the old die— Listen to the bell! it is laughing—‘It is right, it is right; he has had his time.’ They cannot ring so for the young.”
She fell back exhausted; the hot light died from her eyes, and she lay looking out into the street. By and by stragglers from the funeral began to come back and disappear here and there among the houses; then all was quiet, and the night began to settle down upon the village street. Afterward, when the room was almost dark, so that they could not see each other’s faces, she said, “It will rain tonight;” and moved restlessly on the pillows. “How terrible when the rain falls down on you.”