This is the pang of death, even to the meanest. "He that goeth down
to the grave," says Job, "shall return no more to his house, neither
shall his place know him any more." A higher philosophy would
doubtless set no store on our poor personality, and would even
rejoice in the thought of its obliteration or absorption, but we
cannot always lift ourselves to that level, and the human sentiment
remains. Catharine read through the story of the conflict, and when
she came to the resurrection she felt, and Phoebe felt, after her
fashion, as millions have felt before, that this was the truth of
death. It may be a legend, but the belief in it has carried with it
other beliefs which are vital.
The reading ceased, and Phoebe fell asleep for a little. She
presently waked and called Catharine.
"Miss Catharine," she whispered, drawing Catharine's hand between
both her own thin hands, "I have something to say to you. Do you
know I loved Tom a little; but I don't think he loved me. His mind
was elsewhere; I--saw where it was, and I don't wonder. I makes no
difference, and never has, in my thoughts,--either of him or of you.
It will be better for him in every way, and I am glad for his sake.
But when I am gone and I shan't feel ashamed at his knowing it--
please give him my Bible; and you may, if you like, put a piece of
my hair in that last chapter you have been reading to-night."
"Phoebe, my Phoebe, listen," said Catharine: "I shall never be
Tom's wife.
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