The first bloom of death, that light that lingers awhile in the face like a sunset tranquil and blessed, a smile of immortal promise in the very moment of mortality, had faded.

Jenny's face by this was really dead, a mask of drawn and sunken wax.

She seemed now some fantastic doll, some ghastly waxwork image of death such as we see carried on the stage in tragic plays.

The reality of death had gone with the coming of its funereal trappings.

But the little girls, who had to be lifted up one by one to gaze with curious, scared faces into that harsh box, deeper and deeper into which, as through beds of flowers and veils of gauze, Teacher was sinking, knew nothing of these thoughts.