, Expiring Embers 329 



scrip filled with them will forever remain a patrician 

 in the city of pearl. 



A woodsman brought us a present of a little 

 fawn. We cared for it tenderly, but to-day I found 

 it sleeping, and when I thought to waken it, it slept 

 on. Its slender limbs were cold, and I sought to 

 warm them. Placing my hand to its side, its little 

 heart was fluttering like a bird. Its sleep was deep 

 and painless. Why, even this child of the forest, 

 nameless, aimless, with no higher object in living 

 than to live, is so cared for that its life goes out in 

 peaceful repose. 



Is this what men call the King of Terrors? Is 

 this drifting away that which men look forward to 

 with dread? For indeed, it shall come to us in no 

 other way than it came to this innocent fawn — a 

 fluttering heart, benumbing limbs, fading light, 

 voices, however near, seeming to come from afar, 

 and at last silence and perfect repose. We need 

 not regard Death as a personage of much conse- 

 quence. Who is he? Nobody but the Lord's 

 liveried servant, standing at the door to swing it 

 open. There is no more reason why we should fear 

 him than his prototype at the door of the home of 

 a friend. There we do not think of the usher. We 

 see the light in the broad windows, forms behind 

 the lace curtains, and catch a strain of music, a 

 whiff of flowers, and hear the continuous sound of 

 many voices, and we feel by anticipation the clasp 

 of greeting, and see smiling faces of welcome. 



