d there was Jenny lying asleep with a wonderful
smile on her face. She had a little gold chain round her neck and a
white crysanthemum in the bosom of her night-gown, and you thought of
some princess lying in enchanted sleep in an Arabian night. It seemed so
light a sleep and yet somehow so eternal. You stept softly, you spoke
low, lest you should awaken her--not carelessly shall one disturb that
imperious slumber.

Yes, the distinction of death sat like an invisible crown upon Jenny's
brow. She was no longer little Jenny, but a mysterious princess upon
whose sleep it was permitted thus to gaze. The pain which had filled
these weeks with bitter human anguish had been the process of some
mysterious ennoblement. She had been found "worthy to die." In the
peerage of God's creatures, she had now outsoared those whom she loved.
The nature of it was a mystery, but no one could look on her face and
doubt that a great honour had come to little Jenny.

But, O Jenny, may it be your gain indeed, for the loss to us is greater
than we can bear--greater than we can bear. Not Theophil only--not young
love, that, for all his smitten heart, has somewhere hidden away the
potencies of his unspent life, and will still have his dream, though
sorrow itself should become that dream--but this poor old mother, all
the force of her days spent, the sap of her spirit dried up. Hers is the
terrible sorrow of age, with not a hope left betwixt her and death.

Pity her, Jenny--speak one word to her. Hearken to her sobs as she
kneels by your side, and can you not hear the hard crying of his heart
that knows no tears?

Are you become as the gods, Jenny, that you still smile on at the sound
of mortal tears? Will you not stretch out one of those folded hands to
each and lead them away with you? They are praying to follow you, only
to be with you, wherever you are.

And it did seem as though in some strange way the soul of the mother had
still some sure communication with the soul of her dead child.
Motherhood had given her a nearness in the hour which no love of a lover
could gain. She alone spoke to the dead girl as though she were still
really alive, as one speaking to the deaf whom only one voice can reach.

But Theophil was conscious in his wildest, most heartbroken, words that
Jenny could not hear them. He talked to her as though she were a picture
of herself, and as one would implore a picture to answer us, he
symbolised the cry of his soul in