The pain which had filled these weeks with bitter human anguish had been the process of some mysterious ennoblement.

She had been found "worthy to die." In the peerage of God's creatures, she had now outsoared those whom she loved.
The nature of it was a mystery, but no one could look on her face and doubt that a great honour had come to little Jenny.
But, O Jenny, may it be your gain indeed, for the loss to us is greater than we can bear--greater than we can bear.

Not Theophil only--not young love, that, for all his smitten heart, has somewhere hidden away the potencies of his unspent life, and will still have his dream, though sorrow itself should become that dream--but this poor old mother, all the force of her days spent, the sap of her spirit dried up.

Hers is the terrible sorrow of age, with not a hope left betwixt her and death.
Pity her, Jenny--speak one word to her.

Hearken to her sobs as she kneels by your side, and can you not hear the hard crying of his heart that knows no tears?
Are you become as the gods, Jenny, that you still smile on at the sound of mortal tears?
Will you not stretch out one of those folded hands to each and lead them away with you?
They are praying to follow you, only to be with you, wherever you are.
And it did seem as though in some strange way the soul of the mother had still some sure communication with the soul of her dead child.
Motherhood had given her a nearness in the hour which no love of a lover could gain.