fe,"
said this wearied man, "has been clouded by troubles, most of which
never happened." But even apart from the sorrows which he knew might
or might not befall him, there was one darkest shadow, the shadow of
death, the cessation of beloved energies, of delightful prospects, of
the sweet interchange of friendship, of the bright and brave things of
life. Could one, he asked himself, ever come to regard death as a
natural, a beautiful thing, a delicious resting from life, an appointed
goal? It was the one thing certain and inevitable, the last terror,
the final silence, which it seemed nothing could break.

The thought came to him with a deep insistence on a day when a funeral
of a great personage, called away without a single warning, was
celebrated in the chapel of his own college. There was a great
gathering of friends and residents. The long procession, blackrobed
and bareheaded, with the chilly winter sun shining down on the court,
wound slowly through the college buildings, with many halts, and at
last entered the great chapel, the organ playing softly a melody of
pathetic grief, in which the sad revolt of human hearts that had loved
life, and the warm, kind world, made itself heard. They passed to
their places, and then very slowly and heavily, the sad and helpless
burden, the coffin, veiled and palled, freighted with the rich scents
of the dying flowers that lay in stainless purity upon it, was borne to
its place. The life of their brother had been a very useful, happy,
and innocent life, full of quiet energies, of simple activities, of
refined pleasures. There seemed no need for its suspension. The very
suddenness of the summons had been a beautiful and kindly thing,
attended by no fears and little suffering--but kindly, only upon the
supposition that it was necessary. The holy service proceeded, the
voice of old human sorrow, of tender hope, of ardent faith, thrilling
through the mournful words. It was well, no doubt, as acquiescence was
inevitable, to acquiesce as patiently, even as eagerly as possible.
But there were two alternatives; either the beloved life had gone out
utterly, as an expiring flame; if so, was it not well to know it, so
that one might frame one's life upon that sad knowledge? yet the heart
could not bear to think it; and then faith seemed to step in, dimly
smiling, finger on lip, and pointing upwards. If that smile, that
pointing hand, meant anything, why could there not be sen