"It is nothing new, my child," she said, with a faint smile. "I am tired of life."
Looking at the girl, as she spoke, she saw how unable her listener's mind was to comprehend her. Lois looked puzzled.
"You do not know what I mean?" she said.
"Hardly—"
"I hope you never will. It is a miserable feeling. It is like what I can fancy a withered autumn leaf feeling, if it were a sentient and intelligent thing;—of no use to the branch which holds it—freshness and power gone—no reason for existence left—its work all done. Only I never did any work, and was never of any particular use."
"O, you cannot mean that!" cried Lois, much troubled and perplexed.
"I keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that was found under the dead soldier's pillow. The words run in my head, and wake echoes.
'I lay me down to sleep,
With little thought or care
Whether the waking find
Me here, or there.
'A bowing, burdened head—'"
But here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes Lois saw, or guessed, that she could not go on.