Sabbath orderliness, except that the rosebuds
in the glass vase on the table had opened into full bloom in the night.
The white dress that Mrs. Ware had worn the day before lay across a
chair, the sleeves still round and creased with the imprint of the arms
that had slipped out of them.

As Mary stood by the bed, looking down on the still form with the smile
of ineffable peace on its sweet face, her first thought was that she had
never seen such gentle sleep; and then the knowledge slowly dawned on
her, overwhelmingly, with a great feeling of awe that stilled her into
utter calm, that that was not her mother lying there; only the familiar
and beloved garment that had clothed her. She had slipped out of it as
her body had slipped out of the white dress, lying there across the
chair. A holy thing it was, to be sure, hallowed by the beautiful spirit
which had tabernacled in it so long, and bearing her mother's imprint in
every part, as the white gown still held the imprint of the form that
had worn it; but no more than that.

Somehow there was a deep strange comfort in the knowledge, even while
the mystery of it baffled her. And her mother's words came back to her
as forcibly as if she were hearing them for the first time:

"_She is still ours. Her love flows out to us just the same. The
separation cannot make her any less our own! . . . That's all that death
is, Mary, just a going away into another country, as Joyce has done. . . .
A beautiful mystery through which we pass as through an open gate, with
glad surprise at the things that shall be made plain to us, and with a
great sense of triumph!_"

Now, as Mary faced this mystery, a belief began to grow up in her heart,
so soothing, so comforting, that she felt it was surely heaven-sent.
Somewhere in God's universe, this sunny June morning, her mother was
alive and well. She was loving them all just as tenderly and deeply as
she had loved them yesterday, when they all worked together, singing
"Happy Day." And just as it would have grieved her then to have seen
them mourning over any sorrow, so it would grieve her now to know that
they were heart-broken over her going away.

Mary picked up the white dress with reverent fingers and laid her cheek
against its soft folds a moment before she hung it away in the closet.
Then she turned again to that other garment which had clothed her mother
so long; the form which was so like her, and yet so mysteriously
different, now th