Carol's hands were clasped under her head, and she was staring up
through the trees at the clear blue sky, flecked like a sea with bits
of foam.
"Mother," cried Julia, running to the hammock and sweeping wildly at
the sky with a knife she was using for a spade, "I looked right up into
Heaven and I saw my daddy, and he did not cough a bit. He smiled at me
and said, 'Hello, little sweetheart. Take good care of Mother.'"
Carol kissed her, softly, regardless of the streaks of earth upon her
chubby face.
"Mother," puzzled Julia, "what is it to be died? I can't think it.
And I lie down and I can't do it. What is it to be died?"
"Death, Julia, you mean death. I think, dear, it is life,--life that
is all made straight; life where one can work and never be laid aside
for illness; life where one can love, and fear no separation; life
where one can do the big things he yearned to do, and be the big man he
yearned to be with no hindrance of little petty things. I think that
death is life, the happy life."
Julia, satisfied, returned to her canal, and Lark, with throbbing pity,
patted Carol's arm.
"Do you know, Larkie, I think that death is life on the top of a sunny
slope, clear up on the peak where it touches the sky.
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