“Celia!” she burst out suddenly, “I envy you; I’m jealous of you, child. You have all your life before you; you are only on the threshold as yet. Oh, the joy, the power that is yours! For years to come you--in all probability--will be living, and moving and speaking; eating, and drinking, and enjoying yourself; playing your part in the comedy of life; bringing men to your feet by the charm of your face and voice: whilst all the time I--who possess such zest for life--shall lay cold and silent, crumbling away into dust. Oh, what a horrible, _hateful_ thing is death!” Celia scarcely knew how to reply. With the tears springing to her eyes, she knelt by the side of the couch, and gazed earnestly into Ninette’s drawn and weary face. “Why do you envy me my youth?” she said at length, in a suppressed voice. “Have not you, too, been young? Oh, I know how hard it must be to feel that before very long you must leave this bright world, and the sunshine and the flowers; but, if only you had faith in the future life, you would give no thought to your poor body crumbling in the dust: you would think only of the deathless soul-world, so much fairer than this earth. Surely you cannot have been so enamoured of the joys of what you call the comedy of life as to wish to cling to them for ever? I enjoy life, too, and I am young; but I already know that those joys are not to be depended upon; they are apt to disclose their hollowness, and to cloy. Everything changes so. People change, circumstances change, even we ourselves change; only God and Nature and Love are immutable. It seems to me that we can only be truly happy by allotting to our present, material joys, their due proportion--so infinitesimally small--in the great scheme of the whole life eternal. Then we shall no longer regret our past delights, and death will only be to us the mere shedding of our mortal chrysalis. Oh, I wish I could explain more clearly what I mean! I wish, with all my heart, that _I_ could make you feel as I do about these things!” Mrs. Neville Williams patted the girl’s cheek almost tenderly, although she could not quite make out what she meant. “I am too prosaic and matter-of-fact,” she replied, with a sigh. “I am not _spirituelle_, like you. You have your brother’s dreamy and philosophical temperament, child. I wonder if you will hold the same opinions when you arrive at my age. It is so easy to breathe defiance at death when one is young and strong. But enough of this. I see you have brought some music. Sing to me, Celia: something sweet and soothing to frighten the bogey away.” With ready obedience the girl rose, and, taking up her music-case, unfastened it. She had brought three songs with her: the “Snake-song,” from the “Voice of the Charmer,” a light French chanson of Massenet’s; and Stephen Liddle’s beautiful setting of Lyte’s “Abide with me.” After a moment’s thought she unfolded the latter; and opening the top of the piano, placed it on the music-stand.