CHAPTER XII
ATHALIE ventured to send some Madonna lilies with no card attached; but even the thought of her white flowers crossing the threshold of Clive's world—although it was because of her devotion to him alone that she dared salute his dead—left her sensitively concerned, wondering whether it had been a proper thing for her to do.
However, the day following she wrote him.
"Clive Dear,
"I do not mean to intrude on your grief at such a time. This is merely a line to say that you are never absent from my mind.
"And Clive, nothing really dies. This is quite true. I am not speaking of what faith teaches us. Faith is faith. But those who 'see clearly' know. Nothing dies, Clive. Nothing. That is even more than faith teaches us. Yet it, also, is true.
"Dear little boy of my childhood, dear lad of my girlhood, and, of my womanhood, dearest of men, I pray that God will comfort you and yours.
"I was twelve years old the only time I ever saw your father. He spoke so sweetly to me—put his arm around my shoulders—asked me if I were Red Riding Hood or the Princess Far Away.
"And, to obey him, I went to find my father. And found him dead. Or what the world calls dead.