and what it holds for us. I don’t think it can be so very different from life here as
most people seem to think. I believe we’ll just go on living, a good deal as we
live here—and be OURSELVES just the same—only it will be easier to be good
and to—follow the highest. All the hindrances and perplexities will be taken
away, and we shall see clearly. Don’t be afraid, Ruby.”
“I can’t help it,” said Ruby pitifully. “Even if what you say about heaven is
true—and you can’t be sure—it may be only that imagination of yours—it won’t
be JUST the same. It CAN’T be. I want to go on living HERE. I’m so young,
Anne. I haven’t had my life. I’ve fought so hard to live—and it isn’t any use—I
have to die—and leave EVERYTHING I care for.” Anne sat in a pain that was
almost intolerable. She could not tell comforting falsehoods; and all that Ruby
said was so horribly true. She WAS leaving everything she cared for. She had
laid up her treasures on earth only; she had lived solely for the little things of life
—the things that pass—forgetting the great things that go onward into eternity,
bridging the gulf between the two lives and making of death a mere passing from
one dwelling to the other—from twilight to unclouded day. God would take care
of her there—Anne believed—she would learn—but now it was no wonder her
soul clung, in blind helplessness, to the only things she knew and loved.
Ruby raised herself on her arm and lifted up her bright, beautiful blue eyes to
the moonlit skies.
“I want to live,” she said, in a trembling voice. “I want to live like other girls.
I—I want to be married, Anne—and—and—have little children. You know I
always loved babies, Anne. I couldn’t say this to any one but you. I know you
understand. And then poor Herb—he—he loves me and I love him, Anne. The
others meant nothing to me, but HE does—and if I could live I would be his wife
and be so happy. Oh, Anne, it’s hard.”
Ruby sank back on her pillows and sobbed convulsively. Anne pressed her
hand in an agony of sympathy—silent sympathy, which perhaps helped Ruby
more than broken, imperfect words could have done; for presently she grew
calmer and her sobs ceased.
“I’m glad I’ve told you this, Anne,” she whispered. “It has helped me just to
say it all out. I’ve wanted to all summer—every time you came. I wanted to talk
it over with you—but I COULDN’T. It seemed as if it would make death so
SURE if I SAID I was going to die, or if any one else said it or hinted it. I
wouldn’t say it, or even think it. In the daytime, when people were around me
and everything was cheerful, it wasn’t so hard to keep from thinking of it. But in
the night, when I couldn’t sleep—it was so dreadful, Anne. I couldn’t get away
from it then. Death just came and stared me in the face, until I got so frightened I