morbid scenes. These were curious to see
how Warrington was affected, if he showed his grief or contained it,
so that they might have something to talk about till some one else
died. There are some people in this merry world of ours who, when they
take up the evening paper, turn first to the day's death notices; who
see no sermons in the bright flowers, the birds and butterflies, the
misty blue hills, the sunshine, who read no lesson in beauty, who
recognize no message in the moon and the stars, in cheerfulness and
good humor. On the contrary, they seem to abhor the sunshine; they
keep their parlors for ever in musty darkness, a kind of tomb where
they place funeral wreaths under glass globes and enter but half a
dozen times a year. Well, even these had finally dragged themselves
away from the grave, and left Warrington standing alone beside the
brown roll of damp fresh earth. No carriage awaited him, for he had
signified his intention of walking home.

All about him the great elms and maples and oaks showed crisp against
the pale summer sky. Occasionally a leaf fell. A red squirrel
chattered above him, and an oriole sang shrilly and joyously near by.
The sun was reddening in the west, and below, almost at his feet, the
valley swam in a haze of delicate amethyst. The curving stream
glittered. From where he stood he could see them bundling up the
sheaves of wheat. All these things told him mutely that the world was
going on the same as ever; nothing had changed. In the city men and
women were going about their affairs as usual; the smoke rolled up
from the great chimneys. When all is said, our griefs and joys are
wholly our own; the outsider does not participate.

Yes, the world went on just the same. Death makes a vacancy, but the
Great Accountant easily fills it; and the summing up of balances goes
on. Let us thank God for the buoyancy of the human spirit, which,
however sorely tried, presently rises and assumes its normal interest
in life.

Warrington looked dreamily at the grave, and the philosopher in him
speculated upon the mystery of it. Either the grave is Heaven or it is
nothing; one can proceed no farther. If there was a Heaven (and in the
secret corner of his heart he believed there was), a new star shone in
the sky at night, a gentle, peaceful star. Just now the pain came in
the knowledge that she was gone; later the actual absence would be
felt. For a month or so it would seem that she had gone on a jour