“Dear Ester, do you know I have not seen him yet, and I want to.  Mother does not understand, and she would not give her consent, but she thinks me safe while you are with me.  Would you mind going down with me just to look at his face again?”

Oh, Ester would mind it dreadfully.  She was actually afraid of death.  She was afraid of the effect of such a scene upon this strange Abbie.  She raised her head, shivering with pain and apprehension, and looked a volume of petition and remonstrance; but ere she spoke Abbie’s hand rested lovingly on her arm, and her low sweet voice continued the pleading: 

“You do not quite understand my mood, Ester.  I am not unlike others; I have wept bitter tears this past night; I have groaned in agony of spirit; I have moaned in the very dust.  I shall doubtless have such struggles again.  This is earth, and the flesh is weak; but now is my hour of exaltation—­and while it is given me now to feel a faint overshadowing of the very glory which surrounds him, I want to go and look my last upon the dear clay which is to stay here on earth with me.”

And Ester rose up, and wound her arm about the tiny frame which held this brave true heart, and without another spoken word the two went swiftly down the stairs, and entered the silent, solemn parlor.  Yet, even while she went, a fierce throb of pain shook Ester’s heart, as she remembered how they had arranged to descend the staircase on this very day—­in what a different manner, and for what a different purpose.  Apparently no such thought as this touched Abbie.  She went softly and yet swiftly forward to the still form, while Ester waited in almost breathless agony to see what would result from this trial of faith and nerve; but what a face it was upon which death had left its seal!  No sculptured marble was ever so grand in its solemn beauty as was this clay-molded face, upon which the glorious smile born not of earth rested in full sweetness.  Abbie, with clasped hands and slightly parted lips, stood and almost literally drank in the smile; then, sweet and low and musical, there broke the sound of her voice in that great solemn room.

“So he giveth his beloved sleep.”

Not another word or sound disturbed the silence.  And still Abbie stood and gazed on the dear, dead face.  And still Ester stood near the door, and watched with alternations of anxiety and awe the changeful expressions on the scarcely less white face of the living, until at last, without sound or word, she dropped upon her knees, a cloud of white drapery floating around her, and clasped her hands over the lifeless breast.  Then on Ester’s face the anxiety gave place to awe, and with softly moving fingers she opened the door, and with noiseless tread went out into the hall and left the living and the dead alone together.