Oh, who dare inquire what passed in Jane's soul during that hour? The
God who wrote the child's name in His book before she was born, He only
knew. Of all that suffered in Martha's loss, Jane suffered incredibly
more than any other. She fell prostrate on the floor at the feet of the
Merciful Father when this duty was done--prostrate and speechless.
Prayer was beyond her power. She was dumb. God had done it and she
deserved it. She heard nothing John said to her. All that long, long day
she sat by her dead child, until in the darkening twilight some men came
into the room on tiptoe. They had a small white coffin in their care,
and placed it on a table near the bed. Then Jane stood up and if an
unhappy soul had risen from the grave, it could not have shocked them
more. She stood erect and looked at them. Her tall form, in its crushed
white gown, her deathly white face, her black eyes gleaming with the
lurid light of despair, her pale quivering lips, her air of hopeless
grief, shocked even these men, used to the daily sight of real or
pretended mourners.
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