CLARA.

I have often asked you to, but you have never before put it on. You have
always said: It is no longer my wedding dress; it is my shroud now, and
that is something one should not play with. I got so that I couldn't
even look at it any more, because, hanging there so white, it always
made me think of your death, and of the day when the old women would try
to pull it on over your head. Why then today?

MOTHER.

When one is very sick, as I was, and does not know whether one is going
to get well again or not, a great many things revolve in one's head.
Death is more terrible than you think--oh, it is awful! It casts a
shadow over the world; one after the other it blows out all the lights
that shine with such cheerful brightness all around us, the kindly eyes
of husband and children cease to sparkle, and it grows dark everywhere.
But deep in the heart it strikes a light, which burns brightly and
reveals a great deal one does not care to see. I am not conscious of
ever having done a wrong; I have walked in God's ways, I have done my
best about the home, I have brought you and your brother up to fear God,
and I have kept together the fruits of your father's hard work. I have
always managed to lay aside an extra penny for the poor, and if now and
then I have turned somebody away, because I felt out of sorts or because
too many came, it wasn't a very great misfortune for him, because I was
sure to call him back and give him twice as much. Oh, what does it all
amount to? People dread the last hour when it threatens to come, writhe
like a worm over it, and implore God to let them live, just as a servant
implores his master to let him do something over again that he has