“That is your old error, the error of a lack of faith,” she replied, with one of her bright smiles. “Death will unite us beyond the possibility of parting. I pray God that it may come quickly—to me, not to you. You have your life to lead; mine is finished. I do not mean the life of my body, but the real life, that within.” “I think that you are right; I grow sure of it. But here there is nothing to be done.” “Of course,” she answered eagerly; “nothing. Do you suppose that I wished to suggest such a treachery?” “No, you are too pure and good.” “Good I am not—who is?—but I believe that I am pure.” “It is bitter,” groaned Morris. “Why so? My heart aches, and yet through the pain I rejoice, because I know that it is well with us. Had you not loved me, then it would have been bitter. The rest is little. What does it matter when and how and where it comes about? To-day we part—for ever in the flesh. You will not look upon this mortal face of mine again.” “Why do you say so?” “Because I feel that it is true.” He glanced up hastily, and she answered the question in his eyes. “No—indeed—not that—I never thought of such a thing. I think it a crime. We are bid to endure the burden of our day. I shall go on weaving my web and painting my picture till, soon or late, God says, ‘Hold,’ and then I shall die gladly, yes, very gladly, because the real beginning is at hand.” “Oh! that I had your perfect faith,” groaned Morris. “Then, if you love me, learn it from me. Should I, of all people, tell you what is not true? It is the truth—I swear it is the truth. I am not deceived. I know, I know, I _know_.” “What do you know—about us?” “That, when it is over, we shall meet again where there is no marriage, where there is nothing gross, where love perfect and immortal reigns and passion is forgotten. There that we love each other will make no heart sore, not even hers whom here, perhaps, we have wronged; there will be no jealousies, since each and all, themselves happy in their own way and according to their own destinies, will rejoice in the happiness of others. There, too, our life will be one life, our work one work, our thought one thought—nothing more shall separate us at all in that place where there is no change or shadow of turning. Therefore,” and she clasped her hands and looked upwards, her face shining like a saint’s, although the tears ran down it, “therefore, ‘O Death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’” “You talk like one upon the verge of it, who hears the beating of Death’s wings. It frightens me, Stella.” “I know nothing of that; it may be to-night, or fifty years hence—we are always on the verge, and those Wings I have heard from childhood. Fifty, even seventy years, and after them—all the Infinite; one tiny grain of sand compared to the bed of the great sea, that sea from which it was washed at dawn to be blown back again at nightfall.”