He shook his head. “Tongues grow sharper the more they are used.”
“And—at the last? Had he much pain?”
“I was with him when he died. The woman was quiet then. He lay for some hours as though insensible, and I thought the end might be at any moment. All at once he moved, held up his hand, assumed a listening attitude, a wonderful light and smile broke out over his face; he seemed to be hearkening attentively. Then he said, ‘Now,’ laid his head on the pillow, and was dead.”
That night, after the curate was gone, I rocked in my chair, musing, looking into the fire. I muttered, “Poor old Doble!” then after a pause, said, “Happy Doble!” and then, “Now I also understand.”
Thereupon I took down a little book I had of Dr. Alexander’s poems, and read:
“Down below, a sad mysterious music,
Wailing through the woods and on the shore,
Burdened with a grand majestic secret,
That keeps sweeping from us evermore.
Up above, a music that entwineth