extent of her sorrow. She talked incessantly and dwelt on
trivialities, as people will under a weight of events too large
to measure or discuss.

"I am going to write to Tom's father," she said. "This will be an
awful blow to him. He was wrapped up in Tom. And to think that I
was troubling about his letter! He will never see the sea he loved
so much again. He always hated that verse in the Bible that says
there will be no more sea. I was asleep so near him last night.
Yet I never heard him cry out or anything."

Mannering talked gently to her.

"Be sure he did not cry out. He felt no pain, no shock--I am sure
of that. To die is no hardship to the dead, remember. He is at
peace, Mary. You must come and see him presently. Your father
will call you soon. There is just a look of wonder in his face--
no fear, no suffering. Keep that in mind."

"He could not have felt fear. He knew of nothing that a brave man
might fear, except doing wrong. Nobody knows how good he was but
me. His father loved him fiercely, passionately; but he never knew
how good he was, because Tom did not think quite like old Mr. May.
I must write and say that Tom is dangerously ill, and cannot
recover. That will break it to him. Tom was the only earthly
affection he had. It will be terrible when he comes."

They left her, and, after they had gone, she rose, fell on her
knees, and so remained, motionless and tearless, for a long time.
Through her own desolation, as yet unrealized, there still persisted