SCRIPTOR.  Yes, Lector, I have—­but once.  It is now about five years ago, but the impression of it haunts me to this hour.  Perhaps the memory is all the keener because it was my one experience.  In a world where custom stales all things, save Cleopatra, it is all the better perhaps not to see even too much of Death, lest we grow familiar with him.  For instance, doctors and soldiers, who look on him daily, seem to lose the sense of his terror—­nay, worse, of his tragedy.  Maybe it is something in his favour, and Death, like others, may only need to be known to be loved.

LECTOR.  But tell me, Scriptor, of this sad experience, which even now it moves you to name; or is the memory too sad to recall?

SCRIPTOR.  Sad enough, Lector, but beautiful for all that, beautiful as winter.  It was winter when she of whom I am thinking died—­a winter that seemed to make death itself whiter and colder on her marble forehead.  It is but one sad little story of all the heaped-up sorrow of the world; but in it, as in a shell, I seem to hear the murmur of all the tides of tears that have surged about the lot of man from the beginning.

There were two dear friends of mine whom I used to call the happiest lovers in the world.  They had loved truly from girlhood and boyhood, and after some struggle—­for they were not born into that class which is denied the luxury of struggle—­at length saw a little home bright in front of them.  And then Jenny, who had been ever bright and strong, suddenly and unaccountably fell ill.  Like the stroke of a sword, like the stride of a giant, Death, to whom they had never given a thought, was upon them.  It was consumption, and love could only watch and pray.  Suddenly my friend sent for me, and I saw with my own eyes what at a distance it had seemed impossible to believe.  As I entered the house, with the fresh air still upon me, I spoke confidently, with babbling ignorant tongue.  ‘Wait till you see her face!’ was all my poor stricken friend could say.

Ah! her face!  How can I describe it?  It was much sweeter afterwards, but now it was so dark and witchlike, so uncanny, almost wicked, so thin and full of inky shadows.  She sat up in her bed, a wizened little goblin, and laughed a queer, dry, knowing laugh to herself, a laugh like the scraping of reeds in a solitary place.  A strange black weariness seemed to be crushing down her brows, like the ’unwilling sleep’ of a strong narcotic.  She would begin a sentence and let it wither away unfinished, and point sadly and almost humorously to her straight black hair, clammy as the feathers of a dead bird lying in the rain.  Her hearing was strangely keen.  And yet she did not know, was not to know.  How was one to talk to her—­talk of being well again, and books and country walks, when she had so plainly done with all these things?  How bear up when she, with a half-sad, half-amused smile, showed her thin wrists?—­how say that they would soon be strong and round again?  Ugh!