at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night,
at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild and lovely look.
So shall we know the angels, in their majesty, after death.
The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth.
It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile; the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings.
Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now,
and, as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.
She was dead, and past all help, or need of help.
The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast,
the garden she had tended, the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour,
the paths she had trodden, as it were, but yesterday, could know her no more.
"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent,
"it is not in this world that heaven's justice ends.