How can one tell of the fading of a lily.  No one ever told of it all.  One day they sent for me, and when I came the sweetest woman lay upon her couch!  She had talked with her children much that day, and told them many things—­of plannings for their futures.  She had, for the first time, told them of all their father had designed, or hoped, or guessed for each of them.  And they had been very happy, and thought she would recover.  And she had slept peacefully, and had not awakened.

I looked upon her face, and the smile upon it was something wonderful.  It was one of the things which makes me believe there is some great story to it.  There was none with her but her youngest daughter when she left us, and the child could not tell when worlds were touching.  But upon that face was the expression which tells of what is all beyond.  I do believe that, even before she quitted her earthly frame, dear Jean knew that she had found Grant again.

Why have I told this story of two people, which is no story at all, but only what I know of what has happened to those closest to me?  There is no more of it.  It ends with the deaths of them, and yet I do not know that it is sad.  They lived and loved and died.  They had more happiness than comes to one-half humanity.  Their life was of the gold of what is the inner life of the better ones of this great new nation of a new continent.  They lived and loved, and their children live, and will be good men and women.

* * * * * *

I cannot understand the problem.  No learning clears it.  I only know that there were Grant and I, that there were bees and perfumes, and wild, boyish delights, and the older life, and the feverish life of a city, and the rare, great love I looked upon.