born,--though there is a sub-consciousness in us which prophesies of yet
greater beauty awaiting higher vision. The subconscious self! That is
the scientist's new name for the Soul,--but the Soul is a better term.
Now my subconscious self--my Soul,--is lamenting the fact that it must
leave life when it has just begun to learn how to live! I should like
to be here and see what Mary will do when--when I am gone! Yet how do I
know but that in very truth I shall be here?--or in some way be made
aware of her actions? She has a character such as I never thought to
find in any mortal woman,--strong, pure, tender,--and sincere!--ah, that
sincerity of hers is like the very sunlight!--so bright and warm, and
clean of all ulterior motive! And measured by a worldly estimate
only--what is she? The daughter of a humble florist,--herself a mere
mender of lace, and laundress of fine ladies' linen! And her sweet and
honest eyes have never looked upon that rag-fair of nonsense we call
'society';--she never thinks of riches;--and yet she has refined and
artistic taste enough to love the lace she mends, just for pure
admiration of its beauty,--not because she herself desires to wear it,
but because it represents the work and lives of others, and because it
is in itself a miracle of design. I wonder if she ever notices how
closely I watch her! I could draw from memory the shapely outline of her
hand,--a white, smooth, well-kept hand, never allowed to remain soiled
by all her various forms of domestic labour,--an expressive hand,
indicating health and sanity, with that deep curve at the wrist, and the
delicately shaped fingers which hold the needle so lightly and guide it
so deftly through the intricacies of the riven lace, weaving a web of
such fairy-like stitches that the original texture seems never to have
been broken. I have sat quiet for an hour or more studying her when she
has thought me asleep in my chair by the fire,--and I have fancied that
my life is something like the damaged fabric she is so carefully
repairing,--holes and rents everywhere,--all the symmetry of design
dropping to pieces,--the little garlands of roses and laurels snapped
asunder,--and she, with her beautiful white hands is gently drawing the
threads together and mending it,--for what purpose?--to what end?"

And here the involuntary action of some little brain-cell gave him the
memory of certain lines in Browning's "Rabbi Ben Ezra":--

"Therefore I su