"I am very sorry to hear of your sad bereavement," he began, at
last, in a conventional tone--"very sorry indeed--"

She looked at him curiously.

"Are you? I don't think you can be sorry, because you did not know
him--if you had known him, you would have been really grieved--
yes, I am sure you would. He was such a good man!--one of the best
in all the world! I'm glad you have come to see me, because I have
often wanted to speak to you--and perhaps now is the right time.
Won't you sit down?"

He obeyed her gesture, surprised more or less by her quiet air of
sad self-possession. He had expected to offer the usual forms of
religious consolation to a sort of uneducated child or farm-girl,
nervous, trembling and tearful,--instead of this he found a woman
whose grief was too deep and sincere to be relieved by mere talk,
and whose pathetic composure and patience were the evident result
of a highly sensitive mental organisation.

"I have never seen death before," she said, in hushed tones--
"except in birds and flowers and animals--and I have cried over
the poor things for sorrow that they should be taken away out of
this beautiful world. But with Dad it is different. He was afraid
--afraid of suffering and weakness--and he was taken so quickly
that he could hardly have felt anything--so that his fears were
all useless. And I can hardly believe he is dead--actually dead--
can you? But of course you do not believe in death at all--the
religion you teach is one of eternal life--eternal life and