No matter where you are, nothing can change the perfect possession." There was a swift, glad light in the eyes she lifted to his for a moment, but she did not answer.
At first she had been stunned and dazed; she had not realized what her sorrow was; an artificial courage came to her in the thought that John was free, and the terrible and merciful commonplace of packing and putting in order, hid her from herself.
She had stayed behind in the small brown parsonage, with only Alfaretta for a companion, and Gifford's unspoken sympathy when he came every day to see her.

Once she answered it.
"I am glad it is John instead of me," she said, with an uplifted look; "the pain is not his." "And it is so much happier for him now," Gifford ventured to say,--"he must see so clearly; and the old grief is lost in joy." "No," Helen answered wearily; "you must not say those things to me.

I cannot feel them.

I am glad he has no pain,--in an eternal sleep there is at least no pain.

But I must just wait my life out, Gifford.