… "You knew, of course, about Larry's death?"
"Yes, John told me."
"It was in the papers, too."
"Poor Margaret!—I was so sorry for you—it was terrible!"
"You mustn't think of it that way,—I mean for me. It was terrible that any human being should be where Larry got,—where he was hunted like a dog by his own acts, and in sheer despair made an end of himself. I often think of that—think what it must be not to have the courage to go on, not to feel the strength in yourself to live another hour!"
"It's always insanity. No sane person would do such a thing!"
"We call it insanity. But what difference does the name make?" Margaret said. "A human being falls into a state of mind where he is without one hope, one consideration,—all is misery. Then he takes what seems the only relief—death—as he would food or drink; that is sad."
"It was Larry's own doing, Margaret; he had his chance!"
"Of course, more than his chance—more than many chances. He was the kind of protoplasm that could not endure life, that carried in itself the seed of decay,—yet—yet—" She raised her pale face with the luminous eyes and said softly: "Sometimes I wonder if it had to be. When I look at little Ned and see how health is coming to that crippled body—the processes are righting themselves—sound and healthy, ready to be helped back to life—I wonder if it may not be so with other processes not wholly physical. I wonder! … Did you ever think, Isabelle, that we are waiting close to other worlds,—we can almost hear from them with our ears,—but we only hear confusedly so far. Some day we may hear more clearly!"
Margaret had reverted, Isabelle concluded, to the religion of her father, the Bishop! What she was vaguely talking about was the Bishop's heaven, in which the widow and orphan were counselled to take comfort.