r because she
must die ... she ... she alone of all the world. What was the death of
others? An empty word. To her alone death meant something. Now for the
first time it was a serious matter--the very first time on earth.

And no one had compassion on her. Her old coachman sat on the box with
bent back and urged the horses to a trot. _He_ was not going to
die--no, only she. To herself, the poor unlearned woman that shrank
back in her terror against the hard leather cushions was the world, the
big splendid world; with her all its splendor would perish.

And this death-struggle of the world went on beneath her dotted blue
Sunday dress, which she had put on for the difficult journey to the
town. Was the seat of this bitter struggle in her breast? Was it in her
flesh and bone--in her beating heart--in her poor aching head? Yes,
_where_ was the conflict going on? Could she point with her finger and
say "Here?" O mystery of mysteries--where is the poor Ego with its
cosmic suffering? Is it leaning against the hard cushions of the
carriage? Is it flesh and bone--is it a living point, in which all this
pain is now alive?

The woman's passive nature woke up, became sharply penetrating, was
alive for the first time. Struck through by the certainty of death, she
became conscious that she was alive--almost as it was when she had her
first consciousness of her child's life, in the same mysterious and yet
certain way.

Then she shut her troubled eyes; and before her mind rose up her little
golden-haired child, her only treasure, her darling. Burning tears
flowed from her eyes, and her own life, the sacred centre of life, was
again shaken, this time by pure love and anxiety about her dearest. Who
would care for the child--who in all the world? "Only a few more
years," she sobbed, "so that they shan't spoil her!"

And as this torture grew overpowering, a ray of comfort stole into her
darkened soul. Who knew whether it was as bad as they thought? And
though she had seen her own mother die of the same disease, why might
it not be different with her?

So she went on from one stage of suffering to another, broke down under
her cross only to raise herself again, and again to fall, as once our
Lord and Saviour did.

When she drove into the courtyard, her face was calm, her tears wiped
away. This she had done automatically, of long habit. It was time now
for her to be silent as to her suffering, and to live what must be
wholly within