Death is a dreadful thing because of its silence, its separation. Yet if we meet it patiently--if we believe our dead are still within reach--we can bear it, more especially if we do our best to carry out their wishes, and do not, the moment they are gone, begin to reverse all their ideas and plans, and to forget them as speedily as may be; while, when our own time comes, we can face it bravely, feeling we are setting a good example, and leaving behind us nothing to pain or embarrass anyone, nothing but a bright remembrance, a good record, that may sooner or later be of use to others after us. The sick room has more than once been the heart of the house; the death chamber in its turn can become, if properly thought of, the very gate of heaven itself. CHAPTER XII. WHERE SHALL WE GO FOR A CHANGE? I think there is nothing that tries an ordinary householder more than answering the question with which I have headed this, my last chapter. In the first place, as a rule, few men consider that a change can possibly be required. It seems only the other day that they returned from the last uncomfortable sojourn at some unhappy seaside town, and they are quite convinced that a second martyrdom cannot be necessary just at present. In the second, when change is really wanted, no one knows where to go; and in the third, if the place be selected, and the rooms taken, the unfortunate creature is sure to meet someone who knows all about it, and proceeds to make his friend profoundly miserable by telling him that that especial town is only decent at the very time of year when he cannot possibly go there; that he knows for certain an epidemic is raging there; and that the rooms taken for ‘six weeks certain’ are in the very worst part both for health and comfort, and that he can but wish him well home again. And the unfortunate traveller starts depressed and nervous; and having made up his mind to be miserable, is so, and derives no benefit whatever from that which was to do him and his soul an immense amount of good.